ACROSS  AMERICA 
BY  MOTOR  CYCLE 


C.  K,   .HiiPHERI 


"\ 


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in  2007  with  funding  from 

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ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 


Portrait  of  the  Author. 


ACROSS   AMERICA 
BY   MOTOR-CYCLE 


BY 

C.    K.   SHEPHERD 


ILLUSTRATED 


LONDON 
EDWARD  ARNOLD  &  CO. 
1922 

All  rights  reserved 


IS 


fV 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 
by  Butler  &  Tanner,  Frome  and  London 


PREFACE 

A  few  months  after  the  Armistice  of  1918  was  signed, 
when  the  talk  of  everyone  concerned  was  either  when 
they  would  be  demobilized  or  what  they  would  do  when 
they  were  demobilized,  two  young  men  were  exchanging 
views  on  this  same  subject  in  the  heavy  atmosphere 
of  a  very  ordinary  hotel  somewhere  in  London. 

One  was  wondering  how  near,  or  how  far,  were  the 
days  when  he  would  see  the  old  home-folks  once  again 
"  way  back  in  Dixieland." 

The  other  was  wondering  what  form  of  dissipation 
would  be  best  suited  to  remove  that  haunting  feeling 
of  unrest,  which  as  a  result  of  three  or  four  years  of 
active  service  was  so  common  amongst  the  youth  of 
England  at  that  time. 

"  How  about  getting  married  ?  "  suggested  the  one. 

Then  followed  a  long  pause,  wherein  the  other  was 
evidently  considering  the  pros  and  cons  of  such  a  unique 
proposition. 

"  Nothing  doing,"  he  replied  eventually — "  not  excit- 
ing enough,  old  man."  Another  pause — "  And  when  I 
come  to  think,  I  don't  know  of  any  girl  who'd  want  to 
marry  me  even  if  I  wanted  to  marry  her."  And  as  if 
to  give  a  final  decision  to  any  proposal  of  that  nature, 
he  added — "  Besides,  I  couldn't  afford  it !  " 

"  But  I  tell  you  what  I  will  do,  Steve,"  said  he,  "  I'll 
go  back  with  you  across  yon  herring-pond  and  have  a 
trot  round  America." 

v 


vi  PREFACE 

So  that  was  how  it  happened. 

Two  or  three  months  later,  when  I  arrived  at  New 
York  from  Canada,  I  purchased  a  motor-cycle  and  set 
out  to  cross  the  continent  to  the  Pacific,  and  I  have  it 
on  the  best  authority  that  this  was  the  first  time  an 
Englishman  had  ever  accomplished  the  trip  on  a  motor- 
cycle.    If  it  is  so,  I  don't  wonder  at  it ! 

The  whole  trip,  which  covered  just  fifty  miles  short 
of  5,000,  was  undertaken  quite  alone,  and  although 
spread  over  about  three  months,  constituted  a  day  or 
two  short  of  a  month's  actual  riding.  For  the  benefit 
of  brother  motor-cyclists  who  may  be  interested  in  such 
details  I  may  add  that  I  dispensed  entirely  with  the 
use  of  goggles  from  beginning  to  end,  and  except  at  stops 
in  large  towns  on  the  way  I  wore  no  hat.  I  think  that 
when  the  motor-cyclist  gets  accustomed  to  doing  without 
these  encumbrances  he  will  find  the  joys  of  motor-cycling 
considerably  enhanced. 

The  total  number  of  replacements  to  the  engine  alone 
comprised  the  following :  Five  new  cylinders ;  three 
pistons ;  five  gudgeon  pins ;  three  complete  sets  of 
bearings  ;  two  connecting  rods,  and  eleven  sparking  plugs. 

The  machine  was  entirely  overhauled  on  four  occasions 
between  the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific,  and  on  three  of 
these  by  the  recognized  agents  of  the  manufacturers. 
The  engine  cut-out  switch  was  the  only  part  of  the  machine 
that  did  not  break,  come  loose,  or  go  wrong  sooner  or 
later.  I  was  thrown  off  142  times,  and  after  that  I  stopped 
counting !    Apart  from  that  I  had  no  trouble. 

Contrary  to  what  the  reader  may  think,  I  paid  con- 
siderable care  to  the  machine,  particularly  in  the  early 
stages.  For  the  first  three  hundred  miles  I  barely  ex- 
ceeded twenty  to  twenty-five  miles  per  hour  in  order 


PREFACE  vii 

to  give  the  machine  a  good  "  running-in  "  before  submitting 
it  to  harder  work.  At  the  end  of  the  trip  I  had  spent 
more  in  repairs  and  replacements  than  the  original  cost 
of  the  machine,  and  I  sold  it  at  San  Francisco  for  just 
over  a  quarter  of  the  amount  I  paid  for  it  three  months 
before. 

And  I  am  still  as  keen  a  motor-cyclist  as  ever  I 

The  machine  was  of  the  four-cylinder,  air-cooled  type, 
and  I  have  nothing  but  praise  for  the  smooth  running 
that  this  type  affords.  I  have  ridden  scores  of  machines 
at  one  time  and  another,  but  never  have  I  driven  any 
motor-cycle  that  for  luxurious  travel  could  I  even  com- 
pare with  the  one  mentioned  in  this  narrative.  As 
regards  reliability,  however,  I  must  leave  the  reader  to 
form  his  own  opinion  from  the  facts,  which  occurred 
exactly  as  I  have  stated  them.  Nothing  in  this  book 
is  set  down  in  malice,  and  I  can  only  hope  that  my  case 
was  exceptional  so  far  as  the  frequent  breakdowns  were 
concerned.  I  must  admit  that  the  conditions  were 
exceptional  and  that  anyone  crossing  the  United  States 
on  a  motor-cycle  might  expect  trouble  sooner  or  later. 

The  reader  may  observe  that  I  say  little  of  tyre  trouble 
throughout  the  story.  That  is  for  two  reasons :  the 
first  is  that  there  is  nothing  at  all  interesting  in  the 
narrative  of  repairing  a  puncture,  for  instance;  the 
second  is  that  I  had  very  little  trouble  indeed  to  com- 
plain of.  With  the  smooth,  even  torque  that  is  so  char- 
acteristic of  four-cylinder  engines,  tyre  trouble  is  easily 
halved,  and  practically  all  that  one  has  to  fear  is  the 
terrible  condition  of  most  of  the  roads.  I  arrived  in  San 
Francisco  with  the  same  tyres  as  I  had  when  I  started,  and 
they  were  still  good  for  several  hundreds  of  miles  more. 

Petrol   consumption,   too,   was   excellent.     Those   who 


viii  PREFACE 

have  not  known  high-powered,  four-cylinder  motor-cycles 
would  probably  think  the  consumption  would  be  about 
forty  miles  to  the  gallon.  On  the  contrary,  I  found 
my  machine  much  more  economical  than  the  same- 
powered  V-twin.  As  far  as  I  know  I  averaged  about 
75  m.p.g.  "  all  on." 

The  journey  was  comparatively  uneventful.  I  never 
had  to  shoot  anybody  and  nobody  shot  me !  In  spite 
of  the  relative  wildness  and  barrenness  of  the  West, 
there  were  always  food  and  petrol  available  in  plenty. 
I  spent  most  nights  at  the  side  of  the  road  and  experienced 
neither  rheumatism  nor  rattlesnakes. 

In  the  following  pages  I  have  endeavoured  to  portray 
America  and  Americans  exactly  as  I  found  them  and  as 
they  appealed  to  me.  If  at  times  I  perchance  may  give 
offence  to  any  who  are  lovers  of  all  and  anything 
American,  I  do  it  without  intent.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  before  I  went  I  had  the  highest  opinion  of  anything 
that  came  from  that  worthy  country,  so  that  it  cannot 
be  claimed  that  I  am  one  of  those  "  Pro-British-every- 
time  "  individuals  who  delight  in  criticizing  other  coun- 
tries and  other  peoples  in  order  to  gratify  their  own  sense 
of  national  or  other  superiority. 

Finally,  I  will  ask  the  reader  to  be  patient,  or  at  any 
rate,  not  over-critical  when  he  or  she  may  confess  to 
being  bored.  For  the  sake  of  making  this  a  complete 
record  of  my  wanderings  I  have  included  that  which 
may  lack  interest,  and  as  I  can  lay  claim  to  no  graceful 
diction,  I  may,  I  am  sure,  rely  on  the  reader's  indulgence 
towards  the  narrative  of  quite  an  ordinary,  unaspiring, 
British  motor-cyclist. 

C.  K.  S. 

Birmingham,  1922. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Prologue l 

I.  Traffic  in  New  York 

My  Efforts  to  Become  Americanized — Reflections  on  New  York 
Traffic — Dissertation  on  American  Roads — Coney  Island — Equip- 
ment for  the  Journey  .......  8 

II.    New  York  to  Philadelphia 

Companions  in  Distress — "  The  Playground  of  the  World  " — 
American  Proclivities  towards  the  Superlative — A  Lapse  into 
Philosophy — Introduction  to  the  "  Detour  " — The  Good  Samaritan 
Rewarded — Philadelphia — Adventures  with  a  Garage  Proprietor  .         12 

III.    Philadelphia  to  Washington 

Prosperity  in  New  England  Villages — Motor-cycling  de  Luxe — 
Peregrinations  of  a  "Tin  Lizzie" — Insights  into  the  Inner  Life 
of  an  American  Highway — Humouring  a  Negro — Self-conscious 
Scruples — Illuminated    Signs — Hotel  Life  in  Washington    .  .        22 

IV.  Exceeding  the  Speed  Limit 

Experiences  of  Brick  Roads — Approaching  the  Alleghanies — The 
Lust  for  Speed — And  Its  Consequences^Queer  Methods  of  Enforc- 
ing the  Law — Stranded  .......        32 

V.    Across  the  Alleghanies 

Soliloquies  of  the  Humble  Poor — The  Subtleties  of  Advertise- 
ment Hoardings — Corn  in  Egypt — The  Peregrinations  of  an  English 
Sovereign — A  Whiff  of  Good  Old  London — Appreciation  of  Nature 
in  America — Lizzie  Reports  Sick — Lead,  kindly  Light — Auto- 
suggestion as  an  Aid  to  Sleep        ......        42 

VI.    The  Dixds  Highway 

I  Make  the  Acquaintance  of  the  Ohio  River — Lizzie  develops 
Acute  Indigestion — The  Irony  of  Henry  Ford — I  administer  First- 

ix 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

aid — Hero-worship  to  a  Rag-and-bone  Merchant — A  New  Use  for 
an  Old  Tree — The  Ubiquitous  Columbus — The  Friendly  Tram — 
The  Dixie  Highway — Eulogy  to  the  City  of  Dayton — My  Extra- 
vagant Taste  for  Cake — An  alfresco  Meal — A  Final  Burst  of 
Extravagance — Home  Once  More   .  .  .  .  .  .51 

VII.    Cincinnati  and  Onwards 

Cincinnati — A  Memorable  Day — Aspersions  on  an  American 
Repair  Shop — Chess-board  Roads — The  Humour  of  Decorated 
Telegraph  Poles — Soliloquy  on  the  Pike's  Peak  Highway — Effects 
of  State  Boundary  Lines — Indian  Corn — A  Luxurious  Bathe — 
Indianapolis — The  3A  Club — What  Constitutes  a  Good  Road         .         60 

VIII.     Indiana  and  Illinois 

How  Dirt  Roads  are  Cultivated — A  Brush  with  a  Road-plough 
— How  Flivvers  "  get  through  " — A  Bad  Patch  and  a  Good 
Samaritan — The  Subtleties  of  General  Merchandise — I  attract  a 
Crowd  in  Springfield — Taken  for  a  Movie  Actor — Future  Cities 
of  Illinois — Illinois  River — The  Mississippi  at  Last — I  sleep  on  a 
Railway  Embankment  ........        70 

IX.     Stormy  Weather  in  Missouri 

Hannibal — Infantile  Automobilation — Rain  in  Missouri — I  get 
Annoyed — Railroads  v.  Highways — Kansas  City        ...         83 

X.    Results  of  a  Breakdown 

Kansas  City — I  visit  Lizzie  on  her  Sick-bed — I  visit  an  Editor 
in  his  Lair — Kansas  City  gets  My  Story  .  .  .  .89 

XI.     The  Santa  Fe  Trail 

Westward  Again — The  Santa  Fe  Trail — Mosquito  Nets — Into  the 
Great  Prairies — I  sleep  in  a  River — Pie — Prairie  Towns — In  a 
Thunderstorm — Colorado  Reached — The  Map  proves  not  Infallible — 
A  Detour  to  the  Heart  of  the  Rockies — Rain  Again      ...        94 

XII.     The  Royal  Gorge  of  Arkansas 

A  Strange  Dwelling — I  am  Taken  for  an  American — Supper 
in  Style — Sleep  in  Style — Breakfast  and  Lunch  in  Style — The  Sun 
Once  Again — Housebuilding  at  Speed — An  Appreciation — The 
Rockies — Pueblo — Pike's  Peak — The  Royal  Gorge — The  Lust  for 
Taking  Pictures — Picturesque  Names — The  Worst  Road  in  America 
—A  Mud  Bath— The  End  of  a  Perfect  Day     .  .  .  .106 

XIII.  In  Southern  Colorado 

Strange  Mountain  Forms — Trinidad — A  Flivver  to  the  Rescue — 
The  Raton  Pass — A  Wonderful  View — At  the  Feet  of  the  Rockies 
— A  Phantom  Road — Prairie-dogs — Companions — Lizzie  sheds  a 
Sprocket — A  Tiring  Search — The  Biggest  Thing  in  Mud  Lakes — 
Wagonmound — Argument  with  a  Linemaster    .  .  .  .118 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

XIV.    New  Mexico 

Adventures  with  a  Railway — Stuck  Once  Again — Assistance 
from  California, — House-hunting  by  Caravan — Las  Vegas — A 
Wonderful  Ford — A  Mexican  Village — Lizzie  Clean  Again — The 
Travelling  Tinsmith — Santa  Fe  at  Last 132 

XV.    Santa  Fe 

Santa  F6 — Adobe  Architectures — The  Art  Museum — Where 
Americans  Hustle  Not — In  the  Limelight  Again  .  .  .      148 

XVI.    The  Rio  Grande  Valley 

Departure  from  Santa  F4> — La  Bajada  Hill — Albuquerque — The 
Rio  Grande — Indians — The  Morals  of  Mountains — Socorro — Camp- 
ing in  the  Mountains :    A  Farmyard  Episode    .  .  .155 

XVII.    The  Petrified  Forest  of  Arizona 

Magdalena — A  Strange  Metamorphosis — I  Sport  a  Camp  Fire — 
A  Strange  Sight — The  Petrified  Forest  of  Arizona, — Holbrook — Lost 
in  the  Arizona  Desert — Mosquitoes  Again — Winslow — An  Ingenious 
Anti -speeding  Stunt — That  Cylinder  Again  ! — A  New  Use  for  Old 
Sign-posts — Meteor  Mountain — The  San  Francisco  Peaks — Fairy- 
land— Flagstaff    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .163 

XVIII.  The  Grand  Canyon 

The  Lowell  Observatory — Wonders  of  Mars  Hill — Ptomaine 
Poisoning — Flagstaff  Dwellings — Towards  the  Grand  Canyon — A 
Wonderful  Ride — The  First  Approach  of  Loneliness — The  End  of 
the  World— The  Greatest  of  all  Natural  Wonders        .  .  .178 

XIX.  The  Mohave  Desert 

Lizzie  Comes  to  Grief — Etiquette  of  the  Road — The  Tragedy 
of  Peach  Springs — Kingman — Desert  Vegetation — Yucca — The  Art 
of  Rut-riding — The  Tomb  of  a  Town — The  Colorado  Needles — A 
Marvellous  View — Oiled  Roads — Ludlow  .  .  .  .  .192 

XX.    I  Reach  the  Pacific  Coast 

Comrades  in  Arms — Lizzie  begins  to  Complain — Death  Valley — 
An  Unfortunate  Caravan — The  End  of  the  Desert — The  Cajon 
Pass — Los  Angeles  is  Startled         .  .  .  .  .  .210 

XXI.    Los  Angeles  to  San  Francisco 

Los  Angeles — Friendly  California — Towards  'Frisco  by  Night — 
I  Dream  a  Dream — The  Californian  Missions — The  Salinas 
Valley — The  Last  Sleep — Lizzie  gives  it  up  Again — The  Struggle 
for  'Frisco — 4,950  at  last  I .224 

Epilogue 241 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


TO  FACE 
PAGE 


Portrait  of  the  Author 

A  Common  Occurrence 

An  Awkward  Stretch  of  Road  in  Indiana 

The  Midnight  Couch  .... 

The  Oldest  House  in  America,  at  Santa  Fe 

The  Art  Museum  at  Santa  Fe    . 

Pueblo  of  Taos 

The  Rio  Grande,  New  Mexico     . 
A  Petrified  Leviathan 
Lizzie  in  the  Petrified  Forest,  Arizona 
The  Trail  to  the  Grand  Canyon 
The  Lowell  Observatory,  Flagstaff 
San  Francisco  Peaks  from  Flagstaff     . 
The  Bottom  of  the  Grand  Canyon 
Cactus  Trees  near  San  Bernardino 
In  the  Mohave  Desert 


Frontispiece 


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Xll 


PROLOGUE 

One  bright  morning  in  June — to  be  exact,  the  thirteenth 
(the  significance  of  that  number  will  be  apparent  later), 
in  the  year  of  Our  Lord  1919  and  in  the  year  of  American 
Prohibition  1,  a  small  assembly  of  mechanics,  passers-by, 
and  urchins  witnessed  my  departure  from  a  well-known 
Motor  Cycle  Agency  in  New  York. 

The  machine,  a  perfectly  new  and  very  powerful  motor- 
cycle, was  dazzling  in  her  pristine  beauty.  No  spot  or 
blemish  could  be  seen  on  her  enamel  of  khaki  hue.  No 
ungainly  scratch  or  speck  of  rust  marred  her  virgin  form. 
Her  four  little  cylinders,  gaily  murmuring  as  the  engine 
joyfully  sprang  into  life,  seemed  to  hide  a  world  of  romance 
as  if  they  were  whispering  to  each  other  of  the  days  that 
were  to  come,  the  adventures  and  experiences  they  were 
to  encounter,  and  the  strange  lands  they  were  to  see. 
The  purr  of  her  exhaust,  healthy  though  muffled,  smooth 
and  even  in  its  rhythm,  was  music  in  my  ears.  A  thing 
of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever,  and  to  those  who  know  the  call 
of  the  open  road  and  who  love  to  feel  the  rush  of  the 
wind  and  the  glamour  of  speed,  such  was  this  machine. 
Although  she  was  in  reality  but  an  organized  combination 
of  various  pieces  of  unfeeling,  soulless  metal,  without 
even  a  name,  and  known  only  by  a  sordid  number  em- 
bossed on  a  tinplate  provided  by  the  Law,  she  was  soon 
to  develop  a  character  and  personality  of  her  own.  She 
was  to  play  the  role  of  sole  companion  in  the  weeks  and 
months  to  follow.     There  would  be  times  when  I  should 

1  B 


2  PROLOGUE 

curse  her  profanely  and  at  the  same  time  love  her  passion- 
ately. I  pictured  vast  prairies  and  deserts  where  we  should 
be  alone  together,  far  from  the  haunts  of  man  or  animal 
or  perhaps  of  any  living  thing — times  when  it  would 
depend  upon  her  to  bear  me  on  to  civilization.  So  I 
trust,  reader,  that  you  will  not  think  I  was  waxing  too 
sentimental  on  that  memorable  day  in  June. 


The  mileage  indicator  just  flicked  to  4,422. 

I  was  hungry,  hungry  as  a  dog.  I  was  thirsty  too,  and 
tired — oh,  so  tired  !  The  skin  on  my  face  was  tanned 
dark  with  the  desert  sun  and  bore  the  dirt  of  many  days' 
accumulation.  The  growth  of  the  previous  week  was 
upon  my  chin.  My  hair  was  bleached  and  dishevelled, 
my  clothes  and  boots  laden  with  the  sand  and  dust  of 
Arizona  and  California.  With  a  bandaged,  broken  finger, 
and  the  rest  skin-cracked  and  bloodstained  with  the  alkali 
sand,  I  held  the  handles  with  the  palms  of  my  hands. 
The  sole  was  missing  altogether  from  my  right  boot,  and 
the  left  contained  many  a  piece  of  stone  or  gravel  from 
far  away.  A  couple  of  empty  water-bags  flapped  up  and 
down  on  the  handlebar,  and  as  the  old  bus  dragged  her 
weary  way  on  three  cylinders  through  the  crowded 
streets  of  Los  Angeles  her  hideous  clatter  told  many  a 
tale  of  woe.  I  decided  at  that  moment  that  the  best 
thing  in  all  the  world  was  to  get  something  to  eat  and  drink. 

"  What's  the  day  of  the  month  ?  "  I  asked,  when  with 
a  final  "  clank  "  of  the  engine  we  drove  into  the  Agency 
Garage. 

"  The  seventh." 

"  The  month  ?  " 

"  August." 


PROLOGUE  3 

"  And  what's  the  year  ?  '! 

"  Nineteen  nineteen." 

"  The  seventh  of  August  nineteen  nineteen,"  I  mused, 
and  relapsed  into  contemplative  silence.  .  .  . 

Some  one  spotted  the  registration  plate  "  N.Y.8844  " 
and  "  rumbled  "  that  I  had  come  from  New  York. 

"  When  did  you  start  ?  "  they  asked  in  curious  tones. 
The  question  pulled  me  up  with  a  jerk  and  brought  me 
back  to  normal  existence,  so  inadequately  measured  by 
time. 

"  Oh,  seems  like  ten  years  ago  !  "  I  replied,  and  re- 
lapsed once  more  into  reverie. 


CHAPTER  I 
TRAFFIC  IN  NEW  YORK 

I  spent  the  better  part  of  two  days  in  the  survey  of 
New  York  City  from  all  points  of  view.  In  the  Pullman 
from  Niagara  I  had  decided  that  America  would  probably 
be  just  as  bad  as  any  European  country  for  robbing  the 
alien.  I  would  therefore  simulate  the  gentle  habits  and 
customs  of  these  (hitherto)  worthy  people.  Having  some 
slight  knowledge  of  their  language  I  would  endeavour  to 
acquire  perfection  in  the  art  of  American  self-expression. 
I  would  cultivate  the  correct  pose  of  the  hat  and  wear 
boots  with  knobbly  toes.  Only  a  little  practice  would 
be  required  before  I  should  be  able  to  gyrate  a  cigar  at 
the  accepted  velocity  from  one  corner  of  my  mouth  to 
the  other.  In  a  little  while,  methought,  I  should  feel 
much  more  at  ease  in  tight-fitting  clothes  with  ridiculously 
small  sleeves  and  three  inches  of  projecting  shirt-cuffs. 
Maybe  I  should  improve  my  outlook  on  the  world  if  I 
viewed  it  through  a  pair  of  large,  round,  ebony-rimmed 
spectacles.  There  was  just  a  possibility  that  I  should 
some  day  appreciate  the  soothing  charm  of  a  much- 
overworked  morsel  of  chewing-gum.  With  all  these 
splendid  accomplishments  I  could  no  doubt  dispense 
with  the  less  attractive  habits  of  Modern  America. 

Let  me  say  at  the  outset  that  I  proved  a  dismal  failure. 
I  would  sooner  master  the  Chinese  than  the  American 
lingo.    The  infinite  variations  of  nasal   accomplishment 


6  ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

outnumber  by  far  the  tribal  dialects  of  India  and  leave 
the  poor  student  to  wonder  and  despair.  Why !  the 
number  of  orthodox  ways  of  translating  the  plain  English 
word  "  Yes  "  is  probably  beyond  the  scope  of  mathema- 
tical deduction  !  The  shades  and  blends  between  "  Yep  " 
and  "  Ye-oh  "  alone  are  sufficient  to  put  a  spectrograph 
of  the  sun  to  shame. 

For  four  months  I  travelled  through  the  wilds  of  New 
York,  Ohio,  and  Illinois,  and  even  into  the  civilized  states 
of  Colorado,  New  Mexico,  and  Arizona,  in  a  vain  search 
for  the  man  who  pronounced  "  Yes  "  with  a  final  *  s." 
In  the  end  I  found  him,  lurking  in  a  little  restaurant  in 
Los  Angeles.  I  gazed  in  wonderment  intense  and  rap- 
turous when  I  heard  it.  I  have  his  pedigree.  He  said  he 
came  from  Boston.  Boston,  according  to  all  well-informed 
Bostonians,. represents  the  acme  of  perfection  in  all  things 
relating  to  education,  etiquette,  and  propriety.  As  such 
it  is  unassailable  by  any  other  city  in  America. 

There  was  a  time  early  on  when  I  thought  I  was  suc- 
ceeding well.  I  found  that  I  did  better  by  dispensing 
with  speech  altogether.  If  I  dressed  in  a  "  Palm  Beach  " 
suit,  walked  on  people's  feet,  elbowed  my  way  through 
passers-by,  and  continually  repeated  to  myself  "  The  earth 
is  mine  and  all  that  therein  is,"  there  was  never  any 
doubt  but  that  I  was  a  "  Native  Son." 

It  is  superfluous  for  me  to  say,  however,  that  after 
many  trials  and  more  rebuffs,  I  ultimately  abandoned 
the  idea  of  becoming  Americanized.  "  After  all,"  thought 
I,  "  what  sane  Englishman  wants  to  be  an  American  ?  " 
The  project  had  been  but  a  brain-wave  to  combat  the 
"  H.C.  of  L."  To  the  uninitiated,  that  is  the  recognized 
u  Hearst "  abbreviation  for  the  "  High  Cost  of  Living," 
a  topic  which  so  frequently  appears  in  American  news- 


TRAFFIC  IN  NEW  YORK  7 

papers  that  editors  were  forced  to  face  the  question  of 
either  referring  to  it  in  symbols  or  of  cutting  out  the 
"  Want-Ads."  Finally,  therefore,  I  consoled  myself  that 
it  was  better  for  hotel  bills,  cinemas,  ice-cream  sodas, 
petrol,  and  other  necessities  to  rise  200  per  cent,  on  my 
approach  than  for  me  to  lose  my  own  soul.  Incidentally, 
virtue  does  not  always  have  its  own  reward.  On  my 
return  to  England  I  heard  many  accusations  against  me. 
u  What  an  awful  American  accent  you  have !  "  was  the 
greeting  of  many  one-time  friends. 

.  .  .  Some    have    recovered.     Others  are  still   in  hos- 
pital ! 


It  took  me  some  time  to  get  accustomed  to  the  traffic  of 
New  York — rather  should  I  say,  to  its  habits  and  practices. 
New  York  itself  consists  of  a  network  of  streets  and 
avenues  ingeniously  arranged  on  an  island  which  is  about 
five  or  six  times  longer  than  it  is  broad.  The  avenues 
run  the  length  of  the  island  and  the  streets  run  at  right 
angles  across  them.  In  addition,  "  Broadway  "  wobbles 
across  from  one  end  of  the  island  to  the  other,  cutting  the 
avenues  at  a  weird  angle  of  anything  between  nothing  and 
twenty  degrees. 

At  all  the  important  street  crossings  was  stationed  a 
"  traffic  cop  "  whose  duty  was  apparently  to  hold  up  at 
the  most  inconvenient  intervals  all  the  traffic  going  one 
way  until  all  the  traffic  going  the  other  way  had  passed. 
Then  he  blew  his  whistle  and  Hey,  presto !  the  traffic 
in  the  other  street  began  to  move.  It  was  fatal  to  move 
before  the  whistle  was  blown.     I  didn't  know  that ! 

I  had  been  sailing  down  Sixth  Avenue,  just  trying 
the  machine  for  the  first  time,  as  a  matter  of  fact.     Every- 


8  ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

thing  went  smoothly.  I  felt  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 
Here  was  I  on  my  iron  steed  of  ten  little  horses,  about  to 
begin  a  long  holiday  wherein  I  should  forget  the  Kaiser 
and  his  deeds  and  the  four  or  more  years  of  my  existence 
that  had  gone  in  helping  to  bring  about  his  everlasting 
undoing.    But  all  of  a  sudden : 

"  Why  the  jooce  don't  yer  stop,  yer  Goldarn  young  son 
of  a  gun  ?  "  bellowed  an  irate  "  cop  "  who  gesticulated 
but  a  few  feet  from  my  front  wheel. 

"  Well,  why  the  blankety  blank  should  I  blankety 
well  stop,  anyway  ?  "  I  returned,  not  to  be  outdone,  as 
I  pulled  up  in  the  exact  centre  of  34th  Street,  Sixth  Avenue, 
and  Broadway. 

I  could  see  a  crowd  beginning  to  collect.  I  don't 
like  crowds  at  any  time.  I  have  a  keen  antipathy  for 
publicity  .  My  friend  the  "  cop  "  drew  nigh.  "  See  here, 
young  fellar :  whar  yer  from  ?  "  he  inquired,  evidently 
anxious  to  investigate  further  the  mental  condition  of 
this  unique  defier  of  the  Law.  ...  To  cut  a  long  story 
short,  I  was  finally  constrained  by  good  judgment  to  avoid 
further  constabulary  hostilities  and,  in  accordance  with 
the  somewhat  over-ardent  desire  of  the  "cop,"  retired 
like  a  whipped  schoolboy  to  the  corner  where  there  was 
already  a  long  queue  of  waiting  automobiles  and  taxis. 
In  a  few  seconds  the  whistle  was  blown  and  the  procession 
sailed  across  34th  Street,  headed  by  a  much-humbled 
motor-cyclist. 

I  should  explain  at  this  juncture  that  a  motor-cyclist 
is  an  altogether  despised  individual  in  America.  Motor- 
cycles are  not  popular  over  there.  With  few  exceptions 
they  are  owned  by  delivery  men,  newspaper  boys, 
"  traffic-cops "  and  sundry  other  undesirables.  Person- 
ally I  do  not  wonder  at  it.     The  roads  and  streets  in  the 


TRAFFIC   IN  NEW  YORK  9 

cities  are  bad  enough  to  ruin  the  constitution  of  any  but 
the  most  confirmed  young  u  blood  "  who  does  not  mind 
risking  a  few  broken  bones.  I  have  seen  places  in 
Broadway  where  the  tram-lines  wander  six  or  seven  inches 
above  the  surface  of  the  road  and  where  the  pot-holes 
would  accommodate  comfortably  quite  a  family  of  dead 
dogs  within  their  depths. 

So  much  for  the  cities.  The  roads  that  traverse  the 
country  are  with  few  exceptions  nothing  better  than  our 
fifth-rate  country  roads  on  which  no  self-respecting  English- 
man would  ride. 

Here  and  there,  in  the  far  East  and  the  far  West,  are 
found  stretches  of  concrete  or  macadam.  Somehow,  the 
Americans  think  they  are  great  road-builders.  A  couple 
of  inches  of  concrete  laid  over  a  garden-path  or  a  sheep- 
track,  with  the  cracks  filled  in  with  tar,  represents  the 
zenith  of  road  construction  in  this  country  of  ninety  odd 
million  inhabitants.  I  should  like  to  see  some  of  those 
concrete  roads  when  they  have  had  a  few  years'  solid 
wear  with  heavy  lorries  and  occasional  traction  engines. 

Ninety-five  per  cent  or  more,  however,  of  America's 
highways  are  dirt  roads,  or  what  they  are  pleased  to  call 
"  Natural  Gravel."  In  many  cases  they  comprise  merely 
a  much  worn  trail,  and  as  often  as  not  a  pair  of  ruts  worn 
in  the  prairie.  Very  often,  instead  of  being  a  single  pair 
of  ruts,  there  are  five  or  six  or  perhaps  ten,  where  individual 
cars  have  manifested  their  own  personality.  When  this 
multiplicity  of  ruts  crosses  and  re-crosses  in  a  desperate 
attempt  to  achieve  the  survival  of  the  fittest,  the  resultant 
effect  on  the  poor  motor-cyclist  is  somewhat  disconcerting. 
But  of  this  more  anon.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  on  the  whole 
journey  of  4,500  miles  from  one  coast  to  the  other,  I  only 
saw  four  other    motor-cyclists    on   the  road  anywhere. 


10        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

So  the  reader  will  perhaps  understand  why  the  poor  human 
who  travels  in  this  fashion  is  to  be  pitied,  and  why  his 
associates  in  the  towns  and  cities  are  despised  by  the  rest 
of  the  community.  . 

When  I  had  acclimatized  myself  to  the  traffic  of  New 
York  and  could  worm  my  way  successfully  in  and  out  of  the 
"  hold-ups  "  or  dart  between  trams,  taxis,  cars,  and  other 
impedimenta  without  danger  either  to  the  community 
or  to  myself,  I  felt  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  commence 
my  peregrinations  in  earnest. 

I  decided  first,  however,  to  visit  Coney  Island,  which  is 
within  easy  reach  of  New  York  (it  is  only  a  few  miles  away), 
and,  with  a  plentiful  supply  of  trains,  trams,  and  'buses, 
is  fed  with  a  never-ending  stream  of  pleasure-seeking 
humanity.  It  has  one  avenue  of  perhaps  a  couple  of 
miles'  length  running  parallel  with  the  beach,  and  every 
nook  and  corner  on  both  sides  accommodates  a  "  fun 
palace  "  of  some  kind.  There  are  dancing-halls  by  the 
dozen  ;  mountain  railways,  switchbacks,  and  roundabouts 
by  the  score ;  soda  fountains  by  the  hundred.  Fronting 
the  beach  are  hotels,  boarding-houses,  and  restaurants  of 
all  types  save  the  best.  Coney  Island  is  decidedly  not 
a  place  for  the  6lite.  Hither  flock  young  couples,  married 
or  single,  representatives  of  the  American  democracy, 
for  a  week-end  of  frivolity.  The  beach  is  at  all  times 
sprinkled,  as  by  a  human  pepper-box,  with  specimens  of 
the  "  genus  anthropomorpha  "  of  all  sizes,  of  all  ages,  of 
all  shapes,  and  in  all  stages  of  dress  and  undress.  I 
opined  that  indeed  'twas  no  place  for  me,  and  with  one 
push  of  the  starting  pedal  the  motor  was  a  living  thing. 
"  Enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast,"  and  an  hour  at  the  Play- 
ground of  New  York  was  an  hour  well  spent ;  but  I  left 
it   for  ever  behind    me    without  the   slightest   desire  or 


TRAFFIC  IN  NEW  YORK  11 

intention  of  ever  returning  to  its  whirl  of  plebeian 
gaiety. 

Arrived  once  more  at  New  York  City,  I  prepared  to  make 
my  adieux.  I  had  two  handbags  only,  one  a  beautiful  new 
dressing-case,  resplendent  with  pig-skin  writing  pads, 
ebony  brushes,  and  glass  bottles,  and  the  other,  a  slightly 
larger  one,  which  accommodated  my  spare  clothing, 
boots,  etc.,  and  the  miscellaneous  collection  of  junk  that 
every  globe-trotter  inevitably  carries  around  with  him. 

Now  I  have  an  inherent  contempt  for  side-cars,  although 
had  one  been  available  at  New  York  when  I  bought  the 
machine  I  should  have  taken  it  and  carried  all  my  luggage 
with  me.  That  would  have  been  the  acme  of  luxury. 
As  it  was,  however,  I  contented  myself  with  a  good  strong 
carrier  and  with  many  straps ;  the  dressing-case,  sur- 
rounded by  a  good  thick  blanket,  was  securely  attached 
to  the  back  of  the  machine,.  The  other  bag  I  "  shipped  " 
on  by  train  to  my  predetermined  stops  across  the  country. 

That  dressing-case  must  have  weighed  fifty  or  sixty 
pounds,  and  with  the  blanket  around  it  looked  an  alarming 
size  when  in  situ.  There  was  no  hope  for  it.  I'm  that 
kind  of  individual  who  always  likes  plenty  of  silk  shirts 
and  pyjamas  and  things,  so  it  didn't  occasion  me  the 
slightest  worry  if  the  people  did  stare  wildly  at  me  as 
I  passed  through  their  towns  and  villages. 

And  they  "  sure  "  did  ! 


CHAPTER  II 
NEW  YORK  TO  PHILADELPHIA 

"  Gotter  match  ?  "  he  inquired  as  I  pulled  up  near  him. 

I  had  left  my  palatial  sky-scraper  hotel  only  fifteen 
minutes  before.  Soon,  I  contemplated,  my  experiences  in 
and  around  New  York  would  be  past  history.  Happy  and 
light-hearted,  I  was  humming  along  that  boulevard  with 
the  truly  wonderful  surface  which  runs  along  the  edge  of 
Manhattan  Island.  It  is  known  as  "  Riverside  Drive," 
and  here  dwell  many  of  America's  millionaires.  A  young 
fellow  and  his  companion  with  a  Harley-Davidson  and 
side-car  at  the  side  of  the  road  attracted  my  attention. 
Neither  of  them  looked  as  though  he  were  a  resident  of 
that  district.  A  khaki-coloured  shirt,  thick  corduroy 
breeches,  leggings,  and  boots  were  their  only  attire.  One 
of  them  held  up  his  hand  when  he  saw  me. 

"  Maybe  these  fellows  know  something  about  the  roads," 
thought  I ;    so  I  stopped. 

To  stop  a  motor-cyclist  and  ask  him  for  a  match  seemed 
quite  a  unique  departure  from  the  well-established  Eng- 
lish customs  with  which  I  was  familiar.  Feeling  benevo- 
lent, I  silently  proffered  a  box  of  "England's  Glory" 
wax  vestas.  Without  a  word  he  took  one,  scrutinized  it 
closely  as  though  it  were  something  wonderful  in  the  art 
of  match-manufacture,  and  slowly  lit  his  pipe.  A  dozen 
puffs  ensued.     He  broke  the  silence. 

"  Where  you  from  ?  " 

12 


NEW  YORK  TO  PHILADELPHIA  13 

"  When  I  left  it  they  called  it  *  England,' "  I  replied. 

Another  dozen  puffs. 

"  Where  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  I  may  get  to  San  Francisco  some  day." 

"  You  sure  got  some  bit  of  pavement  in  front  of  you.  I 
said  it." 

"  Well,  I  guess  it's  never  so  bad  but  what  it  might  be 
worse,"  I  hinted. 

He  spat  twice,  puffed  a  few  clouds,  spat  again ;  took 
another  look  at  me,  then  glanced  at  my  machine. 

"  You  got  some  bird  there,"  he  ventured,  and  then 
added,  as  if  to  place  the  assertion  beyond  all  doubt, — 

"  I  said  it." 

I  agreed  that  it  ought  to  be  able  to  get  along. 

"  Yew  said  it. — See  that  bird  thar  ?  "  he  asked,  pointing 
to  his  machine.  "  Waal,  I  guess  she  can  move  some  too  ; 
she  done  eight  thousand  miles  on  them  roads,  an'  I  guess 
they  warn't  mos'ly  booleyvards  neither." 

In  the  conversation  which  followed,  mainly  in  reference 
to  many  inquiries  on  my  part  as  to  the  various  "  National 
Highways  "  which  I  had  learnt  were  occasionally  to  be 
found  throughout  the  country,  I  gleaned  from  this  worthy 
native  son  that  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  "go  back 
'ome  and  pick  strawberries  "  than  to  continue  farther  with 
such  an  obviously  insane  desire  as  to  cross  the  American 
Continent.  I  persisted,  however,  that  having  come  thus 
far,  I  would  at  any  rate  continue  while  sanity  remained, 
although  I  should  certainly  bear  his  good  advice  in  mind 
for  future  reference. 

With  a  final  injunction  from  him  that  I  should  know 
him  when  next  I  saw  him  if  I  were  fortunate  enough  to 
subsist  in  the  land  of  the  living,  we  parted,  and  after  a 
trip   on   the  Ferry  across  the  Jersey  River,    I   was  soon 


14        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

winding  my  way  out  of  the  drab  and  dreary  suburbs  of 
Newark. 

It  would  be  ineorrect  to  say  that  the  best  people  do 
not  go  to  Atlantic  City.  Americans,  I  believe,  reckon  this 
well-known  seaside  resort  to  be  one  of  the  nine  wonders 
of  the  world.  No  free-born  American  citizen,  I  do  not 
doubt,  would  give  the  credit  of  the  other  eight,  whatever 
they  may  be,  to  any  foreign  country.  On  this  assumption 
I  felt  I  should  have  no  difficulty  in  identifying  the  other 
eight  when  I  had  seen  more  of  "  God's  Own  Country." 

Now  Atlantic  City  is  just  one  hundred  per  cent.  Amer- 
ican. It  would  be  impossible  to  associate  it  with  any 
other  country  but  America.  To  begin  with,  it  has  the 
inevitable  "  million-dollar "  pier.  Let  me  explain  that 
nothing  in  America  is  worthy  of  popular  patronage  unless 
it  costs  at  least  a  million  dollars.  When  I  was  at  Niagara 
I  was  told  how  many  million  gallons  of  water  flowed  over 
the  falls  in  a  year.  No  one  (on  the  American  side)  seemed 
to  worry  very  much  about  the  magnificence  of  the  falls 
or  the  grandeur  of  the  river.  Such  sordid  interests  do 
not  appeal  to  them.  But  ask  someone  how  many  million 
horse-power  will  be  developed  in  a  year,  and  see  with  what 
eagerness  he  relieves  you  of  your  ignorance !  The 
American  public  will  have  millions  in  their  calculations 
and  their  lust  for  the  superlative  must  be  appeased. 

In  Atlantic  City  there  are  naturally  many  objects  of 
interest  to  the  budding  student  of  modern  life  like  myself, 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  amusements  of  this  nation  do 
not  differ  considerably  from  the  modest  efforts  of  our 
own.  There  one  can  see  the  usual  bashful  maidens  whose 
main  delight  is  to  recline  on  the  sand  or  parade  the  beach 
in  the  latest  thing  in  bathing  costumes, — but  never 
under  any  circumstances  to  get  them  wet.    Also  we  find 


NEW  YORK  TO   PHILADELPHIA  15 

the  usual  stores  where  every  conceivable  variety  of  picture 
post  card  or  "  present  from  .  .  .  ."  can  be  bought. 

In  two  hours  I  was  aweary  of  Atlantic  City.  In  a  very 
superior  frame  of  mind  I  trod  on  my  feelings  and  the  kick- 
starter  of  "  Khaki  Lizz  "  (my  soubriquet  for  the  machine, 
which  was  finished  entirely  in  that  delightfully -reminiscent 
hue)  and  turned  her  nose  towards  the  west.  Philadelphia, 
I  decided,  was  to  be  my  resting-place  that  night. 

To  be  hot  on  the  scent  of  Philadelphia  was  one  thing ; 
but  to  get  there  was  quite  another.  A  glorious  three- 
mile  stretch  of  macadamized  road  out  of  Atlantic  City 
was  indeed  a  tempting  bait,  and  I  admit  for  a  few  luscious 
but  brief  moments  I  set  at  defiance  all  limits  of  speed 
imposed  for  the  general  welfare  of  the  public  by  worthy 
law-makers  upon  the  motoring  population  of  New  York 
State.  I  have  always  contended  (privately,  not  in  public  !) 
thai  laws  are  only  made  to  be  broken.  I  might  perhaps 
add  that  I  was  destined  afterwards  to  supplement  this 
somewhat  outrageous  dictum  with  a  further — "  He  only 
is  entitled  to  break  laws  who  thoroughly  knows  and 
understands  them  !  " 

As  every  wanderer  in  this  vale  of  tears  discovers,  all 
good  things  come  to  an  end  some  time.  That  three-mile 
stretch  of  macadamized  road  very  soon  came  to  an  end. 
It  ended,  as  far  as  I  remember,  in  an  abrupt  right-angle 
corner  where  in  an  endeavour  to  get  round  at  about 
forty-five  miles  an  hour  I  nearly  met  myself  coming  back, 
and  from  that  point  the  road  gradually  bore  resemblance 
to  an  elongated  dust-heap.  They  call  it  "  natural  gravel," 
which  means  that  in  the  opinion  of  the  road  engineers  of 
that  time  the  natural  surface  of  the  road  did  not  need 
any  reinforcement  in  the  way  of  metal.  I  should  imagine 
that  about  99  per  cent,  of  all  the  roads  in  America  are  of 


16        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

this  construction,  the  remaining  1  per  cent,  being  either 
covered  with  a  layer  of  concrete,  or  macadam,  as  in  any 
civilized  European  country.  At  times,  very  few  and  far 
between,  this  natural  gravel  forms  quite  a  tolerable 
surface  where  there  is  not  much  traffic,  but  it  must  be 
remembered  that  motor-cars  are  used  in  the  States  on  a 
far  greater  scale  than  is  ever  dreamt  of  in  England.  I 
was,  in  fact,  simply  amazed  at  the  tremendous  number  of 
cars  in  the  various  towns  and  villages  through  which  I 
passed.  I  have  sometimes  been  in  a  town,  and  quite  a 
large  one  too,  where  it  was  almost  impossible  to  find  a 
place  at  the  side  of  the  pavement  where  I  could  leave 
my  machine.  Every  available  space  was  taken  up  with 
a  car,  and  in  some  towns,  Salt  Lake  City  for  instance,  I 
have  seen  cars  "  parked  "  along  the  side  of  the  road  two- 
deep,  so  that  to  cross  from  one  side  of  the  road  to  the  other 
one  has  to  traverse  four  separate  ranges  of  automobiles. 
In  the  summer,  thousands  of  cars  are  travelling  all  day 
long  between  Atlantic  City  and  the  adjacent  large  cities, 
so  that  the  reader  can  perhaps  imagine  the  state  of  all  the 
main  highways  in  that  direction. 

I  was  here  introduced  to  a  diversion  which  at  first 
seemed  quite  an  interesting  one,  but  which  continued 
familiarity  certainly  turned  to  contempt.  I  refer  to  the 
"  detour."  The  unfortunate  motorist  is  perhaps  ploughing 
his  way  steadily  along  through  the  gravel,  dust,  and  sand. 
He  encounters  a  barrier  across  the  road  bearing  a  notice 
that  repairs  are  going  on  and  that  he  must  follow  the 
detour  indicated.  The  road  selected,  I  believe,  is  generally 
the  one  with  the  most  pot-holes,  ruts,  mountains,  canyons, 
etc.,  in  its  formation  in  the  surrounding  district.  Some- 
times in  these  detours  one  finds  further  auxiliary  detours 
until    finally    one   has   to   use   the    utmost    intelligence 


NEW  YORK  TO  PHILADELPHIA  17 

and  a  compass  in  order  to  get  back  to  the  main 
highway. 

I  did  not,  therefore,  arrive  in  Philadelphia  strictly  to 
schedule.  I  was  many  times  tempted  to  take  up  my 
abode  at  a  convenient  spot  on  the  side  of  the  road.  Several 
times  I  dismounted  and  examined  a  promising  spot,  but 
always  there  was  some  very  serious  objection.  This 
objection  either  took  the  form  of  frogs  or  of  mosquitoes 
or  of  both.  As  we  used  to  read  in  the  days  of  the  War, 
"  the  enemy  was  present  in  large  numbers."  I  did  not 
relish  either  the  prospect  of  being  kept  awake  indefinitely 
with  the  objectionable  gurgling  of  a  battalion  of  bull- 
frogs or  of  being  eaten  to  death  in  my  slumbers  by  a 
nation  of  bloodthirsty  mosquitoes. 

So  I  spun  onwards,  ever  onwards  towards  Philadelphia. 
Meanwhile  the  sun  was  sinking  lower  and  lower  in  the 
west.  The  nearer  I  got  to  Philadelphia  the  more  numerous 
became  the  cars  on  the  road.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
whole  of  Philadelphia  frivolled  at  Atlantic  City  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon.  I  was  working  my  way  along,  dodging 
tremendous  pot-holes  and  ruts,  imagining  myself  in  an  hour 
or  two's  time  reposing  comfortably  between  clean  white 
sheets.  All  of  a  sudden  a  most  distressing  noise  came 
across  my  ear.  It  appeared  to  be  a  motor-cycle  in  pain. 
At  times  there  was  only  one  cylinder  firing.  Sometimes 
there  were  two.  At  other  times  there  was  none  at  all. 
I  drew  in  to  the  side  of  the  road  and  waited  for  the  unfor- 
tunate author  of  this  disturbance  to  arrive. 

He  soon  emerged  from  the  darkness.  He  had  no  lights, 
and  was  only  too  pleased  to  stop  at  the  sight  of  another 
motor-cyclist. 

"  Why,  I  thought  I  was  the  only  madman  about  here," 
I  greeted  him,  surprised  but  gratified  to  know  that  there 

c 


18        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

really  were  other  seemingly  sane  people  who  rode  motor- 
cycles in  America. 

How  delighted  he  was  to  meet  another  Englishman ! 
He  had,  he  explained,  been  in  America  only  a  year  or  two, 
having  come  from  my  old  home  town  of  Birmingham 
during  the  War.  He  had  got  so  "  fed  up  "  with  Americans 
that  it  was  a  treat  to  set  eyes  on  anyone  from  the  Old 
Country. 

He  was  a  youth  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  years,  and  after 
I  had  fixed  him  up  with  a  couple  of  sparking  plugs  and 
attended  to  a  few  other  urgent  requirements,  he  asked  me 
abruptly,  but  quite  politely,  the  inevitable  question,  just 
as  I  might  have  expected.  "  Where  you  from,  an'  where 
you  goin'  ?  " 

I  explained  that  I  was  making  for  Philadelphia,  where 
I  hoped  to  find  somewhere  to  lay  my  weary  head. 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  want  anything  very  luxurious," 
said  he,  "  I  think  I  can  fix  you  up  all  right,  if  you  don't 
mind  going  on  ahead  to  light  the  way." 

I  gladly  assented,  and  by  this  means,  with  my  brilliant 
headlight  illuminating  the  road,  it  did  not  take  us  long  to 
reach  the  Delaware  River,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  which 
stood  the  fine  old  city  of  Philadelphia.  It  took  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  to  cross  the  river  by  the  ferry,  but  once  in 
Philadelphia  my  friend  was  happy.  "  Now  you  follow 
me,"  he  said. 

He  had  no  lights  whatever,  but  his  engine  was  running 
well,  so  I  agreed  and  followed.  This  was  not  in  itself 
very  easy.  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  I  have  never 
seen  any  motor-cycle  anywhere  dash  along  at  such  a 
rate  through  a  city.  Although  it  was  dark  and  I  could 
not  see  my  speedometer,  I  am  sure  that  he  must  have 
travelled   about   forty-five   miles   per   hour  through   the 


NEW  YORK  TO  PHILADELPHIA  19 

streets  of  Philadelphia.  They  were  certainly  good  and 
straight  and  wide.  There  was  a  little  traffic  here  and  there, 
but  this  did  not  seem  to  worry  our  friend  in  the  slightest. 
Occasionally  we  saw  a  "  cop "  or  two  standing  on  a 
street  corner  make  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  step  into 
the  road  to  hold  us  up.  Our  friend,  however,  was  desperate 
and  would  stop  for  no  one.  After  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour's  riding,  dodging  round  corners  and  shooting 
past  obstructions  at  a  tremendous  pace,  he  pulled  up  at 
a  small  corner  house  in  a  secluded  portion  of  the  town  and 
we  dismounted.  He  lived  with  his  mother,  he  explained, 
but  she  was  away  in  New  York.  Also  he  had  lost  his 
latchkey.  Also  it  was  really  a  florist's  shop,  but  he  was 
sure  I  wouldn't  mind.  "  There  is  nothing  for  it,"  he 
said,  "  but  to  climb  the  fire  escape  and  get  in  through 
the  front  window." 

I  shouldered  him  up  to  an  iron  frame  projecting  from 
the  house.  Thence  he  clambered  on  to  a  rickety  fire 
escape  leading  up  the  wall  into  blackness,  and  he  was 
soon  lost  to  sight.  A  few  moments  later  the  front  door 
opened  and  we  pushed  our  muddy,  dirty  machines  on  to 
the  clean  linoleum  of  the  front  room,  where  they  remained 
overnight  surrounded  by  pots  of  roses,  carnations,  palms, 
and  ferns.  This,  he  explained,  was  quite  the  usual  proce- 
dure and  his  mother  would  not  mind  a  bit ! 

It  was  then  about  11.30,  and  when  we  had  washed  some 
of  the  dirt  from  our  faces  we  sallied  forth  in  quest  of  a 
meal.  We  had  no  difficulty  in  picking  up  the  scent  of 
a  flourishing  cafeteria.  Neither  did  we  have  any  difficulty 
in  disposing  of  disgusting  quantities  of  hot  coffee  and 
"  waffles,"  a  commodity  peculiar  to  America,  resembling 
pancakes  and  eaten  with  jugfuls  of  maple  syrup. 

Well  after  midnight  we  returned  to  our  domicile,  and  I 


20        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

laid  me  down  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  righteous.  At 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  bade  farewell  to  mine  host. 
Not  a  cent  would  he  accept  in  payment  for  my  night's 
lodgings.  So,  with  the  parting  assurance  that  he  would 
drop  in  and  see  me.  when  he  was  next  in  England,  we  each 
took  our  several  roads — he  in  the  direction  of  a  neigh- 
bouring works  where  he  was  employed  as  a  mechanic,  and 
I  towards  Washington,  drifting  meekly  along  the  streets 
at  certainly  nothing  like  the  speed  of  the  night  before. 

The  road  for  some  distance  was  good,  the  sun  came  out, 
and  the  day  promised  to  turn  out  fine  and  hot.  I  soon 
began  to  feel  an  inward  content.  Everything  was  going 
smoothly.  I  was  expecting  some  money  to  be  waiting 
for  me  at  Washington,  and  then  I  should  have  nothing  to 
worry  about  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

As  it  usually  happens  when  one  begins  to  pat  oneself 
on  the  back,  I  immediately  had  a  puncture.  It  was  of 
course  in  the  back  wheel.  Meanwhile  the  sun  was  rising 
higher  and  higher,  and  when,  after  about  half  an  hour,  I 
had  repaired  the  wheel,  I  was  feeling  very  thirsty.  Another 
five  miles  further  on  I  had  another  puncture.  This  time 
it  happened  to  be  exactly  outside  a  garage. 

I  have  known  places  in  England  where  a  certain  amount 
of  trade  is  always  guaranteed  by  the  ingenuity  of  some 
of  the  garage  proprietors  who  regularly  and  systematically 
throw  tacks  and  nails  along  the  road  in  their  vicinity.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  this  was  a  practice  not  confined  to 
England,  as  examination  revealed  the  cause  of  the  punc- 
ture to  be  a  nice  long  nail  driven  through  from  one  side  of 
the  tube  to  the  other.  Not  feeling  of  a  very  arduous 
disposition  at  the  time,  I  wheeled  it  into  the  garage  to  be 
repaired. 

I  am  afraid  I  was  rather  annoyed  at  the  result.     In 


NEW  YORK  TO  PHILADELPHIA  21 

the  first  place,  I  had  to  supply  the  mechanic  with  solution. 
In  the  second  place,  I  had  to  take  off  the  tyre  for  him. 
In  the  third  place,  I  supplied  a  patch ;  and  in  the  fourth 
place,  I  actually  had  to  do  the  job  for  him.  After  settling 
his  account,  I  finally  explained  in  language  as  polite  as  I 
could  muster  that  in  my  opinion  the  practice  of  strewing 
discarded  nails  and  other  implements  on  the  highway, 
while  not  being  exactly  meritorious  in  itself,  was  just 
as  commendable  a  method  of  obtaining  a  business  connec- 
tion as  many  that  were  frequently  resorted  to  in  other 
trades  or  professions  of  a  higher  standing.  I  explained, 
however,  that  after  having  been  so  successfully  victimized 
by  such  an  artifice,  one  would  consider  oneself  justified 
in  expecting  a  much  higher  standard  of  workmanship 
than  was  apparently  forthcoming  in  his  establishment. 

Then  we  parted,  the  mechanic  expressing  the  hope 
that  he  would  never  (crimson)  well  see  me  again,  and  that 
if  I  ever  did  happen  to  be  coming  back  that  way  and  got 
a  nail  in  my  (unspeakable)  tyre  that  he  would  see  me  in 
(Arizona)  before  he  would  (smoking)  well  repair  it  for  me  ! 


CHAPTER  III 

PHILADELPHIA  TO  WASHINGTON 

The  scenery  now  began  to  look  charming.  Rolling 
ranges  of  hills  extending  into  the  distance  clustered 
around  as  we  drew  nearer  to  the  Chesapeake  River,  which 
flows  into  the  well-known  bay  to  which  it  gives  its  name. 

"  All  aboard  for  Chesapeake  Bay." 

...  I  hummed  the  air  to  myself  as  the  road  abruptly 
ended  and  a  suspension  bridge  continued  the  course 
across  the  broad,  peaceful  mouth  of  the  river.  The  whole 
country  around  seemed  to  be  permeated  with  a  comfort- 
able, wholesome  vigour.  Nothing  seemed  shabby,  dis- 
contented, or  poverty-stricken.  I  passed  through  many 
small  towns  and  embryo  cities.  All  were  prosperous  and 
all  extended  a  hearty  welcome  to  the  traveller  or  visitor. 
Stretched  across  the  road  between  two  poles,  just  before 
I  entered  one  little  town,  was  a  huge  white  banner  bearing 
the  words : — 

"CONWAY  CITY  WELCOMES  YOU. 
WE  LIKE  TRAVELLERS  TO   VISIT  US. 
HAVE  A  GOOD  LOOK  AT  OUR  CITY." 

Conway  "  City  "  did  not  prove  to  be  exactly  a  metropolis. 
It  was  probably  nothing  more  than  a  well-to-do  farm  town. 
But  the  houses  were  clean  and  neat,  indeed  some  of  them 
were  very  beautiful,  perfectly  up-to-date  but  never 
objectionably  modern.     The  roads  were  a  bit  bumpy  in 

22 


PHILADELPHIA  TO  WASHINGTON  23 

places  but  not  at  all  bad  as  American  roads  go.  As  I 
passed  out  of  the  town  I  saw  another  notice  similar  to 
the  first : — 

"THANK  YOU  FOR  COMING. 

WE  HOPE  YOU  LIKE  US. 

COME  AGAIN." 

I  got  so  used  to  being  welcomed  to  every  town  I  came 
to  that  I  forgot  I  was  a  "  stranger  "  in  a  "  foreign  land." 
There  was  not  a  town  or  village  that  did  not  publish  its 
welcome  in  some  form  or  other.  In  the  main  it  was  by- 
advertisements .  But  if  I  stopped  at  a  wayside  store  to 
quench  my  thirst  (oh,  the  sun  was  hot !)  I  was  met  neither 
with  scowls  nor  incivility.  I  am  reminded  of  the  old 
joke  of  Punch  many  years  ago  : — 

"  Oo's  that  bloke  over  theer,  Bill  ?  " 

"  Dunno ;    stranger,  I  think." 

"  'Eave  'arf  a  brick  at  'im." 

That  is  typical  of  what  we  English  think  of  strangers. 
The  man  of  better  education  or  more  refinement  perhaps 
expresses  himself  differently,  but  he  feels  just  the  same 
as  a  rule. 

At  this  juncture  in  my  reveries  the  macadam  road  stopped 
and  gave  way  to  "  natural  gravel."  That  was  quite 
sufficient  to  postpone  any  soliloquies  I  may  have  been 
indulging  in  until  a  later  date.  The  entire  sixty  seconds 
in  every  minute  were  employed  in  keeping  myself  substan- 
tially upright.  Small  pot-holes  gave  place  to  larger  ones, 
and  they  in  turn  to  larger  still.  The  loose  sand,  which 
was  an  inch  or  two  deep  at  the  start,  soon  assumed  more 
considerable  depths.  As  the  detective  books  of  our 
youth  used  to  say,  "  The  plot  grew  thicker  and  thicker." 
I  was  floundering  about  from  right  to  left,   prodding 


24        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

energetically  on  the  ground  each  side  with  my  feet  to  main- 
tain some  kind  of  balance.  At  times  the  back  wheel 
churned  up  the  sand  aimlessly  in  an  endeavour  to  get  a 
grip  on  something  solid.  Here  and  there  the  sand  and 
gravel  were  heaped  into  great  ridges  as  if  a  mighty  plough 
had  been  along  that  way.  Getting  through  this  stuff, 
thought  I,  was  no  joke.  Furthermore,  it  was  warm  work  ; 
very  warm  work.  Now  and  then  I  would  find  myself 
directed  absolutely  without  control  from  one  side  of  the 
road  to  the  other,  and  only  with  the  greatest  strain  could 
I  keep  the  machine  on  its  wheels.  And  with  all  this 
the  "  highway  "  still  maintained  its  regulation  width  of 
90  feet !  The  casual  observer  from  an  aeroplane  above 
would  in  all  probability  be  attracted  by  its  straightness, 
its  whiteness,  and  its  apparent  uniformity.  "  What  a 
splendid  road  1"  he  would  think. 

Not  so  I.  I  was  on  the  point  of  physical  exhaustion 
with  the  seemingly-endless  paddling  and  pushing  and  heav- 
ing (and  don't  forget  the  half-hundred-weight  bag  on  my 
back !)  when  I  was  thrown  on  to  a  steeply-cambered  part 
of  the  road  at  the  side.  The  back  wheel  just  slid  limply 
sideways  down  the  slope  and  left  everything  reposing 
peacefully  in  the  natural  gravel  of  Maryland. 

When  I  had  extricated  myself  from  under  the  machine, 
I    surveyed   the   position  with   a   critical   eye.     What  a 
road  for    a    civilized   country !     These  Yanks  must  be 
jolly- well  mad  to  tolerate  such  roads  as  this ! 


Just  then  an  old  Ford  came  by.  It  was  shorn  entirely 
of  mudguards,  running  boards,  and  other  impedimenta. 
As  he  wallowed  past  me,  swaying  to  this  side  and  that, 
sometimes  pointing  at  right  angles  to  the  way  he  was 


PHILADELPHIA  TO   WASHINGTON  25 

going  and  with  his  old  engine  buzzing  away  in  bottom 
gear  and  clouds  of  steam  issuing  from  his  radiator  (it  had 
no  cap ;  it  must  have  blown  off !)  the  driver  seemed 
perfectly  at  ease.  He  rolled  a  cigar  stump  from  one 
corner  of  his  mouth  to  the  other  and  gazed  nonchalantly 
ahead.  I  don't  think  he  even  noticed  me  and  my  recum- 
bent motor-cycle.  I  could  not  repress  a  grin  as  his  old 
box  of  tricks  disappeared  slowly  up  the  road,  wagging  its 
tail  this  way  and  that  and  narrowly  averting  a  catastrophe 
at  every  few  yards.  "  You  ragtime  bunch  of  tin  mer- 
chants !  "  I  mused  (not  so  much  in  reference  to  the  driver 
as  to  the  nation  in  general !)  as  his  diminishing  form  finally 
side-slipped  into  the  ditch  at  a  bend  in  the  road. 

And  then  a  distressing  thought  struck  me :  "  They'll 
never  believe  me  when  I  get  back  home  and  tell  them  !  " 
So  I  took  my  little  camera  out  of  the  tool-box  on  the  top 
tube  and  snapped  the  worst  bit  of  road  there  and  then. 
A  five  minutes'  struggle  followed,  in  which  "  Khaki  Lizz  " 
was  withdrawn  from  her  ditch. 

By  way  of  nourishment  to  sustain  me  in  any  further 
fights  with  the  road,  I  slowly  and  meditatively  consumed 
one  only  orange  before  proceeding  once  more. 

But  things  did  not  improve.  Here  and  there,  where  the 
ridges  of  soil  and  gravel  had  not  been  disturbed,  grew 
tufts  of  grass  and  weeds.  Huge  ruts,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  in  the  remaining  sand,  showed  where  cars  were 
wont  to  pass  as  fancy  dictated,  and  with  only  two  wheels 
it  was  barely  possible  to  maintain  any  progress  at  all. 

"  Hang  it  all !  This  is  too  much  I  "  I  exclaimed,  after 
a  few  more  precipitate  dismounts, — and  took  another 
photo  and  ate  another  orange. 

A  mile  or  two  farther  on  I  came  to  a  weird-looking 
machine  at  the  side  of  the  road.     It  was  a  sort  of  combina- 


26        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

tion  of  steam  tractor  and  automatic  plough,  but  very 
much  bigger  and  more  complicated.  Its  main  function 
was  to  chop  down  en  masse  the  sides  and  banks  of 
the  road  and  shovel  the  debris  into  the  middle.  Grass, 
shrubs,  bushes,  and  young  trees  alike  fell  victims  to  its 
activities.  Now  this  really  was  the  limit !  Not  satisfied 
with  the  condition  of  the  road  as  it  was,  they  sent  forth 
this  "  Heath  Robinson "  mechanism  to  improve  it.  I 
stopped  and  left  the  bike  standing  in  the  road  where  it 
was — there  was  no  need  to  prop  it  up  against  anything — 
and  went  back  to  question  the  driver  of  this  implement 
as  to  its  function  in  life. 

He  was  not  perturbed  in  the  slightest  either  at  my 
question  or  at  the  heated  state  of  mind  and  body  in  which 
I  approached  him.  Punctuated  by  intervals  in  which  he 
slowly  masticated  a  worn-out  chunk  of  chewing-gum,  he 
explained  that  all  good  motorists  liked  wide  roads  ;  that 
the  State  Council  had  decided  that  motorists  should  have 
wide  roads  ;  that  they  had  provided  machines  for  widening 
roads  that  at  present  were  not  up  to  standard  width ; 
and  finally  that  he  was  there  to  see  that  this  machine  did 
its  work  properly ! 

So  I  took  another  photograph,  ate  another  orange, 
kicked  the  self-starter  once  more,  and  pushed  on  again. 
The  road  got  worse  and  worse.  Sometimes  there  were 
ruts  and  sometimes  there  were  strips  of  unploughed  field 
in  the  middle  of  it.  But  I  spent  no  more  films  on  it. 
The  people  at  home,  I  decided,  would  have  to  take  my 
word  for  it  after  all.  About  ten  miles  farther  on  I  came  to 
a  cross-road.  It  was  perfectly  straight  and  beautifully 
paved  with  concrete  and  stretched  from  one  horizon  to 
the  other.  With  what  joy  I  gazed  upon  its  countenance  ! 
There  was  a  wooden  shack  on   one  corner,  evidently  a 


PHILADELPHIA  TO  WASHINGTON     27 

saloon.  A  negro  sat  on  the  doorstep,  gazing  indolently 
at  me. 

"  Is  this  the  road  to  Baltimore  ?  "  I  inquired,  indicating 
the  concrete  highway. 

No  reply.  But  he  continued  to  gaze  at  me,  and  spat 
twice. 

"  Must  be  deaf,"  thought  I.  "  How's  this  for  Washing- 
ton ?  "  I  shouted. 

Still  no  reply. 

"  Say,  brother,  which  is  the  road  to  Baltimore  ? " 
I  inquired  as  politely  as  convenient. 

The  appellation  "  brother  "  had  its  effect.  The  negro 
jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  indicating  that  I 
was  to  go  straight  on  (and  incidentally  follow  that  excru- 
ciating stretch  of  natural  gravel). 

Fortunately,  Baltimore  was  not  many  miles  away,  and 
when  I  got  there  I  breathed  many  sighs  of  relief.  There 
were  paved  roads,  good  and  true  ;  macadam  and  concrete 
for  miles  and  miles,  all  the  way  to  Washington.  I  picked 
my  way  by  instinct  through  Baltimore,  the  capital  of  the 
State  of  Maryland,  not  stopping  for  food  or  rest.  I  would 
reach  my  destination  before  I  gave  way  to  such  physical 
necessities.  I  certainly  had  an  appetite,  but  I  always 
feel  that  more  than  two  meals  a  day  when  on  tour  are 
not  only  unnecessary,  but  mean  a  dead  loss  of  time, 
money,  and  distance. 

The  reports  on  the  state  of  the  road  ahead  turned  out 
to  be  true  in  every  detail,  and  throwing  to  the  winds  all 
respect  for  such  trivialities  as  speed  limits,  I  made  up  for 
at  least  a  good  fraction  of  the  time  wasted  on  the  road. 

When,  about  5  p.m.,  I  pulled  Lizzie  on  to  her  stand 
outside  one  of  Washington's  "  cafeterias,"  I  began  to  feel 
an  incipient  timidity.     I  doubted    whether  I  should  be 


28        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

able  to  get  into  any  respectable  hotel.  I  was  covered 
in  dust,  and  dirt.  Headgear  of  any  kind  I  had  dispensed 
with  altogether.  My  hair  was  dusty  and  knotted  with 
the  wind.  Owing  to  the  heat,  I  had  also  found  it  advisable 
to  remove  my  collar  and  tie,  so  that  the  wind  could 
circulate  as  much  as  possible.  How  could  I  in  such  a 
condition  maintain  my  self-respect  in  Washington,  the 
magnificent  capital  of  the  United  States  ? 

Fortunately,  it  did  not  take  long  for  me  to  overcome 
such  scruples.  Another  day  or  two  on  the  road,  and  I 
was  perfectly  at  ease  during  the  intervals  in  which  I  had 
intercourse  with  civilization.  Occasionally  I  experienced 
a  difficulty  in  entering  a  drug-store  for  an  iced  drink, 
and  sometimes  I  felt  a  trifle  shy  at  my  bare,  sunburnt 
neck,  but  no  one  seemed  to  mind.  I  soon  found  that  in 
America,  and  particularly  when  travelling  in  the  West, 
one  could  wear  absolutely  anything  that  one's  fancy 
might  dictate  without  rousing  the  slightest  disturbance. 

After  satisfying  my  requirements  at  the  "  cafeteria," 
the  second  item  on  my  programme  was  a  visit  to  the  Post 
Office.  This  revealed  the  sordid  fact  that  there  was 
no  money  awaiting  me.  It  can  easily  be  understood  that 
such  a  discovery  might  have  proved  most  distressing. 
I  had  been  advised  not  to  take  much  with  me,  but  to 
cable  for  a  draft  from  home  at  intervals.  My  adviser, 
as  I  was  afterwards  to  find  out  to  my  cost,  had  overlooked 
the  utterly  chaotic  state  of  the  post-war  transatlantic 
mail  service. 

I  still  had  a  little  left,  however,  quite  enough  to  get 
me  comfortably  to  Cincinnati,  my  next  financial  depot,  so 
why  worry  ?  I  could  always  work  for  a  living,  or  at  any 
rate,  if  I  did  not  feel  inclined  to  that,  I  might  pawn  some- 
thing. 


PHILADELPHIA  TO  WASHINGTON  29 

I  found  a  hotel  that,  from  the  outside,  just  suited  my 
fancy.  Plain,  large  and  unpretentious,  it  described  itself 
in  an  illuminated  sign  as  the  "  National."  I  booked  a 
room  at  three  dollars  (125.  6d.)  and  sallied  forth  to  see 
the  sights. 

I  was  impressed  with  Washington.  It  is  truly  a  city  of 
beautiful  streets  and  magnificent  buildings.  Undoubt- 
edly it  is  the  city  de  luxe  of  America.  Being  the  capital, 
wealth  is  lavished  upon  it.  No  factories  or  barren  wastes 
disfigure  its  graceful  countenance.  Every  street  or 
avenue  glistens  at  night  with  a  bewildering  multitude  of 
illuminated  signs.  This  method  of  advertising  is  typi- 
cally American.  The  first  impression  of  a  stranger  visiting 
a  large  American  city  at  night  is  that  he  is  in  a  children's 
luminous  palace.  There  are  illuminations  and  decora- 
tions of  every  conceivable  nature.  Sometimes  a  single 
sign  advertising  perhaps  some  particular  brand  of  chewing- 
gum  or  cigarette  or  motor-car  has  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  of  lights  wonderfully  displayed  in  different 
colours  and  arranged  in  different  series,  one  series  flashing 
into  view  as  another  disappears,  then  a  few  seconds  later 
giving  place  to  another  still  more  wonderful,  and  finally 
there  comes  a  grand  climax  in  which  all  the  colours  and 
all  the  series  and  all  the  figures  blaze  forth  in  an  inde- 
scribable orgy  of  light. 

When  I  found  myself  finally  back  in  my  hotel  I  was  to 
be  the  victim  of  still  another  disillusionment.  No  country 
anywhere  could  rival  America  for  hotels,  I  had  thought. 
But  I  had  not  then  experienced  the  "  National  "  at  Wash- 
ington. The  room  allotted  to  me  was  literally  an  outrage. 
It  was  of  the  very  poorest  that  one  would  expect  to  find 
in  an  East  End  boarding-house  in  the  Old  Kent  Road. 
It  had  one  window,  which  faced  on  to  an  unimaginably 


30        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

dreary  "  area."  The  carpet  was  threadbare  and  colour- 
less. The  furniture,  consisting  of  one  bed,  one  dressing- 
table,  one  wardrobe  and  one  chair  was  obviously  suffering 
from  advanced  senile  decay.  There  was  a  washbasin  in 
one  corner  that  boasted  of  two  taps  and  a  piece  of  wood 
to  stop  the  hole  up  with.  The  door  showed  signs  of  having 
been  minus  a  lock  for  many  a  long  day.  I  was  too  tired, 
however,  to  bother  about  trivialities  of  detail,  so  putting 
my  revolver  under  the  blanket  near  me  in  case  of  possible 
eventualities,  I  laid  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep. 

Nothing  occurred,  however,  to  disturb  my  peace  of 
mind  or  body  throughout  the  night.  The  following 
morning  found  me  hot  on  the  warpath  after  a  bathroom. 
After  sundry  peregrinations  I  unearthed  a  clue.  It  was 
in  the  form  of  a  very  oorpulent  negress — evidently  a 
chambermaid.  u  Bathroom  ?  "  "  No,  dere  am  no  bath- 
room h'yar,"  she  informed  me.  But  I  persisted  in  my 
inquiries,  suspecting  her  reply  to  be  a  mere  excuse  for 
sheer  laziness.  Finally,  as  a  last  resort,  I  absent-mindedly 
took  my  "  life  preserver  "  from  my  hip  pocket  and  looked 
at  it  vacuously.  Its  effect  was  magical.  "  Yes,  saar,  yes, 
saar,  come  right  h'yar  !  — I  find  you  bathroom  !  " 

When  I  came  to  square  up  that  morning  I  paid  my 
respects  and  three  dollars  to  the  management. 

"  See  here,  Mister  Manager,"  I  said  in  such  a  tone  that 
everyone  within  hearing  distance  had  the  benefit  of  it  as 
well,  "  I've  done  a  bit  of  travelling  here  and  there,  but 
never  in  any  city  at  any  time  have  I  struck  any  hotel 
that  for  sheer  rottenness  compares  with  this  one  !  " 

I  have  an  idea  at  the  back  of  my  mind  that  that  manager- 
man  doesn't  love  Englishmen  ! 

Now  that  I  had  seen  America's  capital,  I  turned  my  face 
to  the  west,  and  began  to  make  rash  estimates  and  frivolous 


PHILADELPHIA  TO   WASHINGTON  81 

promises  to  myself  concerning  my  destination  for  the  day. 
Could  I  get  to  Cincinnati  next  day  ?  How  long  would 
it  take  to  do  the  odd  550  miles  or  so  ?  And  what  would 
be  my  reception  when  I  got  there  ?  I  had  some  friends 
in  Cincinnati,  friends  that  I  had  never  even  seen.  What 
would  they  think  when  they  saw  this  specimen  roll  up 
to  their  front  door  in  Clifton  Avenue  ?  Was  Lizzie  going 
to  stand  up  to  it  all  right  ?  When  should  I  get  to  the 
coast  ?  What  kind  of  roads  should  I  meet  "  out  West  "  ? 
And  so  I  wondered  on. 


CHAPTER  IV 
EXCEEDING  THE  SPEED  LIMIT 

I  did  not  waste  much  time  on  the  road.  Fortunately 
there  was  a  good  proportion  of  concrete  road,  although 
the  inevitable  natural  gravel  was  not  by  any  means 
conspicuous  by  its  absence.  I  also  passed  many  stretches 
of  brick  road. 

This  variety  is  confined  in  England  mainly  to  city 
streets,  and  is  associated  nearly  always  with  trams.  Not 
so  in  America.  On  the  main  roads  of  the  East  I  have 
passed  many  a  ten-mile  stretch  of  splendidly  paved 
highway  made  solely  out  of  good  red  brick,  and  of  the 
correct  size  and  shape  and  camber  of  surface  that 
literally  made  one's  tyres  hum  and  sing  as  each  brick  was 
momentarily  touched  in  endless  procession.  I  need 
hardly  say  that  for  every  good  stretch  of  brick  road 
there  are  umpteen  bad  ones  though,  just  to  add  a  spice 
of  life  a  la  grande  route.  Here  and  there  one  would 
encounter  by  no  means  solitary  patches  where  apparently 
some  enterprising  farmer  had  torn  up  a  few  bricks  from  in 
front  of  some  one's  house  to  repair  his  cowshed  or  to 
build  a  new  pigsty,  or  maybe  to  help  put  another  storey 
on  his  house.  There  would  seem  to  the  lay  mind  such 
as  my  own  to  be  a  most  decided  disadvantage  in  this 
method  of  road  construction  !  To  put  it  mildly,  it  is 
disheartening  when  one  is  enjoying  a  fifty-mile-an-hour 
sprint  on  a  straight  stretch  of  road  visible  almost  from 

32 


EXCEEDING  THE   SPEED   LIMIT  33 

horizon  to  horizon,  to  be  rudely  awakened  from  swift 
but  peaceful  contemplation  of  the  beauties  of  nature, 
the  loveliness  of  the  atmosphere  and  the  joys  of  motoring 
by  being  mercilessly  thrown  on  top  of  the  handlebars 
with  one  tremendous  thump.  At  one  spot  of  which 
I  have  very  vivid  recollections,  the  road  took  a  short 
dip  down  and  up  again.  In  the  bottom  of  the  "  valley  " 
thus  formed  was  a  young  but  aspiring  canon  where  a 
wayward  stream  had  left  its  prosaic  path  to  strike  out 
in  life  on  its  own  across  the  road.  Its  presence  was 
unfortunately  undiscernible  until  close  acquaintanceship 
was  made. 

When  I  came  round  I  was  vaguely  conscious  of  some- 
thing having  happened,  but  as  the  engine  was  still 
running  and  the  front  wheel  was  still  fairly  circular, 
I  got  up  and  rode  on,  but  not  until  I  had  arrived 
definitely  at  the  conclusion  that  had  I  been  doing  sixty 
instead  of  forty-five  I  should  have  jumped  across  the  bit 
of  road  that  wasn't  there  and  been  hardly  the  wiser  of  it ! 

Here  it  was  that  I  began  to  scratch  crosses  on  the 
top  tube  to  keep  count  of  the  number  of  times  I  was 
thrown  off  on  the  whole  trip. 

When  the  top  tube  got  too  short  I  put  them  on  the 
front  down  tube. 

When  that  was  full  I  scratched  them  on  the  bottom  tubes. 

After  that  I  trusted  to  memory.  But  that  was  when 
I  got  to  the  "  Far  West." 

I  made  good  time,  however,  in  spite  of  an  occasional 
set-back,  and  looked  forward  to  completing  three  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  that  day.  With  luck  I  should  reach 
Cincinnati  the  next,  and  then,  oh  for  the  joys  of  a  good 
hot  bath,  clean  clothes,  well-cooked  food,  and  last,  but 
not  by  any  means  least,  good  company.     And  I  wasn't 

D 


34        ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

forgetting  either  that  I  had  only  about  twenty-five  dollars 
in  my  pocket.  With  no  mishaps  I  should  have  enough 
and  to  spare  for  even  three  or  four  days'  travelling. 

It  was  not  yet  midday,  and  the  sun  was  getting  very 
hot  indeed.  Moreover,  I  was  getting  hungry.  Although 
I  believe  the  two-meal-a-day  system  to  be  an  excellent 
one,  one  sure  gets  a  roaring  appetite  for  breakfast  at  the 
end  of  a  hundred-mile  ride.  So  if  I  had  not  a  moral 
excuse  for  a  little  real  speed  work  I  at  least  had  a 
physical  one.  The  road  surface  now  changed  from  red 
brick  to  dazzling  white  concrete  as  in  the  far  distance 
the  Alleghany  Mountains,  that  inexpressibly  beautiful 
range  that  stretches  parallel  with  the  Atlantic  coastline 
from  Maine  to  Georgia,  loomed  gradually  higher  on  the 
horizon,  its  varying  tints  growing  deeper  and  deeper 
as  mile  after  mile  flew  by. 

There  was  hardly  a  soul  on  the  road.  Occasionally 
I  would  pass  a  touring  car  loaded  up  with  human  freight 
and  with  luggage  bags,  bandboxes  and  portmanteaux 
piled  up  and  strapped  (and  sometimes  I  think  glued  !) 
to  every  available  mudguard,  wing  or  projection  that 
was  large  enough  to  accommodate  them  and  quite  a 
lot  that  weren't.  Then  a  hay  wagon  flew  by,  and  then, 
after  a  few  miles,  a  solitary  farmer  on  horseback — not 
at  all  a  common  sight  in  this  land  of  Fords  and  motor- 
cars. And  after  a  few  more  miles  a  tiny  black  speck 
came  into  view  on  the  horizon.  It  took  a  long  time 
to  catch  up.  When  I  got  closer  I  made  it  out  to  be  a 
Buick  roadster,  its  two  occupants,  a  young  man  and  his 
(apparent)  fiancee,  evidently  enjoying  a  little  spin  in  the 
country.  And  he  wasn't  crawling  either.  A  touch 
of  my  electric  horn  (oh,  a  beautiful  horn  it  was  !)  aroused 
his  soul  from  its  soliloquy  and  he  drew  in  to  the  right, 


EXCEEDING  THE  SPEED  LIMIT  35 

waving  me  on  vigorously  as  he  did  so.  And  as  I  passed 
him  he  seemed  to  quicken  a  little.  I  glanced  sideways 
for  an  instant  and  spotted  a  gleam  in  his  eye.  So  I 
accepted  his  unspoken  challenge  and  glanced  now  and 
then  over  my  shoulder.  He  was  hanging  on  well,  his 
six  cylinders  to  my  four.  A  mile  was  passed  and  he  was 
still  just  a  little  way  behind.  The  road  was  clear  and 
straight,  so  I  opened  out  a  little  more. 

Another  glance.  He  was  still  there.  My  speedo- 
meter hovered  around  fifty. 

Not  to  be  outdone  I  twisted  Lizzie's  right  handlebar  grip 
as  far  as  it  would  go,  and  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue  we 
darted  ahead.  Fifty-five,  sixty,  sixty-one,  sixty-two, 
sixty-five.     The  wind  was  simply  screeching  in  my  ears. 

Another  glance  back,  our  friend  was  slowly  losing 
distance.  A  minute  or  two  more  and  he  was  fast  dwindling 
behind.     In  ten  miles  he  was  almost  back  on  the  horizon. 

I  had  visions  of  breakfast  in  "  Hagerstown,"  the 
next  town  of  importance  not  so  very  far  ahead.  And  so 
I  forgot  our  friend  of  the  Buick.  In  ten  minutes'  time 
I  came  to  a  village.  As  usual  the  good  surface  of  the 
highway  stopped  and  the  roads  through  the  town  turned 
from  the  perfect  concrete  to  an  infernal  hotch-potch  of 
holes,  gullies,  ruts  and  mounds.  Ironical  notice  boards 
warned  the  traveller  that  he  must  reduce  his  speed  to 
fifteen  miles  per  hour.  It  was  purgatory  even  to  go  at 
four  !  To  plunge  into  a  seething  mass  of  soil-waves  at 
speed  is  disconcerting.  It  annoys  you.  But  it  is  a 
custom  that  grows  on  you  in  Eastern  America.  You 
flounder  about  from  side  to  side ;  you  take  a  hop,  skip 
and  a  jump  here,  there  and  everywhere ;  your  very 
bones  are  shaken  in  their  sockets  ;  your  temper  approaches 
a  frenzy  of  despair  ;  and  your  language  ! 


36        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

Time  was  when  I  would  blush  with  shame  at  the  sound 
of  a  word  that  was  bad.  Then  a  war  came  along  and  I 
learnt  to  experience  the  soothing  charm  of  an  occasional 
flow  of  language.  Occasionally  I  met  a  sergeant-major 
who  could  swear  freely  for  five  minutes  without  even 
repeating  himself  ! 

And  then  I  motor-cycled  across  the  States.  And  my 
heart  rejoiced  within  me  that  I  had  received  such  an 
excellent  education.  I  found  that  with  very  little 
provocation  or  practice  I  could,  had  I  the  desire,  have 
graduated  to  a  very  much  higher  stage  of  perfection  in 
the  United  States  than  with  the  British  Army  in  France. 
Indeed  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  aver  that  when  ultimately 
I  reached  San  Francisco  not  only  could  I  have  put  to  shame 
the  most  cultured  sergeant-major  that  ever  drilled  recruits 
on  a  square,  but  in  his  moments  of  greatest  enlighten- 
ment his  powers  of  speech  would  have  appeared  as  the 
futile  prattle  of  childhood  compared  to  what  /  could 
have  taught  him. 

So  that  is  why  I  slowed  down  when  I  got  to  "  Victor- 
ville." 

In  a  few  minutes,  who  should  come  alongside  but  our 
friend  with  the  Buick  racer.  He  slowed  down  and  put 
up  his  hand.  "  Mind  stopping  here  a  minute  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  replied,  thinking  he  wanted  to  ask  the 
way  or  borrow  a  sparking  plug — or  maybe  beg  a  match. 

He  got  out  of  his  car  and  came  along. 

"  Say,  d'ye  know  what  speed  you  were  doing  way 
back  there  ?  "  he  asked  casually  with  a  kind  of  ten-per- 
cent.-solution  smile. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I  guess  I  got  you 
beat,  anyway  !  "  I  chuckled. 


EXCEEDING  THE  SPEED  LIMIT  37 

Whereat  he  pulled  a  pocket-book  from  his  coat  and 
opened  it.     (Going  to  give  me  his  card,  thought  I.) 

"  I'll  trouble  you  for  your  number,"  quoth  he,  as  he 
came  to  a  page  that  was  all  nicely  printed  in  columns 
ready  for  use. 

From  that  moment  I  saw  things  in  a  different  light. 
Verily  the  workings  of  the  Law  would  seem  to  be  getting 
interesting. 

"  And  your  licence,  please  ?  "  after  he  had  obligingly 
removed  a  layer  of  dust  from  my  number-plate. 

"  What  licence  ?  " 

"  Your  driving  licence,  of  course.     What  y'  think  ?  " 

"  See  here.  Mebbe  I  do  look  a  bit  of  a  mug,  but  I 
do  know  you  don't  have  to  have  a  separate  licence  in  New 
York  State,  s'long  as  your  machine  is  registered.  The 
number -plate  is  the  same  thing  as  a  licence." 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?  I  didn't  know  that."  (Pause)  "  Well,  do 
you  mind  following  me  a  short  way  down  the  road — next 
block  but  one.    It  isn't  far.'? 

Whereat  he  got  in  his  car  again  and  moved  slowly 
forward,  while  his  lady  friend  protruded  her  arm  from  one 
side  as  if  to  stop  me  if  I  was  inclined  to  dash  past. 

I  did  think  of  it  in  fact,  because  I  knew  I  could  give 
him  a  run  for  his  money,  but  America,  I  recollected,  was 
noted  for  its  telephone  service  and  I  couldn't  quite  fancy 
having  to  resort  to  a  hiding-place  near  the  banks  of  the 
Ohio  or  perchance  a  field  of  corn  somewhere  in  Indiana. 

So  I  followed  them  down  to  the  corner. 

We  stopped  at  a  small  wooden  shanty  on  the  door  of 
which  was  a  board  bearing  the  sign  "  Daniel  S. 
Tomkin,  Attorney-at-Law."  My  friend  the  "  speed 
cop  "  pushed  open  the  door  and  ushered  me  into  a 
passage.     On  the  right  was  another  marked  "  Justice 


38        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTORCYCLE 

Tomkin."     "  Come  in  :    come  in,"  shouted  a  shrill  seedy- 
voice  as  the  "  cop  "  knocked  at  the  door. 

14  I've  got  a  case  for  you,  Judge,"  said  he,  when  we  got 
inside. 

"  Oh  yes,  oh  yes  !  " — and  then  to  me — "  Take  a  seat, 
sir,  please,  and  er — make  yourself  at  home." 

I'm  afraid  at  that  juncture  I  began  to  laugh.  The 
"  Judge  "  was  just  the  kind  of  man  that  we  love  to  see 
"  on  the  pictures  "  in  England,  but  who  we  never  believe 
really  exists.  I  had  seen  his  prototype  dozens  of  times 
before.  Tall  and  wiry,  thin  legs  and  tight  trousers, 
"  Uncle  Sam  "  physiognomy  with  the  usual  goat's  beard 
and  with  stars  and  stripes  printed  in  indelible  ink  all 
over  him.  He  sat  at  a  desk  bare  of  papers,  books,  letters 
or  other  impedimenta.  How  long  the  desk  had  been 
cleared  for  action  I  know  not,  but  his  duties  as  a  Justice 
of  the  Peace  evidently  did  not  involve  any  overtime 
from  the  look  of  things.  The  room  was  small  and  dingy 
and  its  walls  were  covered  with  shelves  piled  with  books 
of  all  colours,  shapes  and  sizes. 

Judge. — "  And  what  has  this  gentleman  been  doing  ?  " 

Speed  Cop  (producing  notebook  and  reading  there-" 
from). — "  Driving  a  motor-cycle  in  excess  of  the  legal 
speed  limit,   namely  at  forty-five  miles   an   hour." 

Judge  (after  reaching  from  a  bookcase  a  large  red 
book  marked  "  Laws,  Bye-Laws  and  Regulations  existent 
in  the  State  of  Maryland,"  or  words  to  that  effect). — 
"  I  will  proceed  to  read  Statoot  number  51,  article  13, 
section  321b,  subsection  2a  of  the  '  Regulation  of 
Traffic  in  the  State  of  Maryland  Act,  1898.'" — (Submerged 
chuckle  from  self) — "  And  it  is  hereby  enacted  that 
anyone  found  guilty  of  exceeding  25  miles  per  hour 
but  not  exceeding  30  miles  per  hour  will  be  liable  to  a  fine 


EXCEEDING  THE   SPEED   LIMIT  39 

of  not  less  than  5  dollars  for  the  first  offence  and  of  50 
dollars  for  a  second  and  any  subsequent  offence ;  and 
anyone  found  guilty  of  exceeding  30  miles  an  hour  but  not 
exceeding  35  miles  per  hour  will  be  liable  to  a  fine  of 
not  less  than  10  dollars  for  the  first  offence,  etc.,  etc. ; 
and  anyone  found  guilty  of  exceeding  35  miles  per  hour 
but  not  exceeding  45  miles  per  hour  will  be  liable  to  a  fine 
of  not  less  than  25  dollars  for  the  first  offence,  etc.,  etc.'* 
—(Considerable  amusement  visible  on  the  face  of  self) — 
"  and  anyone  found  guilty  of  exceeding  60  miles  per  hour 
will  be  liable  to  a  fine  of  100  dollars,  etc.,  etc." — (Feeling 
of  merriment  subsides) — "but  anyone  found  guilty  of 
exceeding  60  miles  per  hour  will  be  liable  to  a  fine  of  250 
dollars  for  the  first  offence  and  of  1,000  dollars  and  im- 
prisonment for  any  subsequent  offence.  I  am  afraid, 
sir,  in  view  of  the  evidence  and  of  the  dictates  of  Statoot 
number  51,  article  13,  section — etc.,  etc.,  I  shall  have 
to  administer  the  minimum  fine  of  25  dollars."  (I 
breathe  again). 

Self.—"  Say,  Judge,  we  seem  to  have  got  a  bit  ahead, 
don't  we  ?  Aren't  I  going  to  have  a  chance  to  say  any- 
thing ?  " 

Judge  (a  little  "peeved."  Evidently  that  aspect  of 
the  case  hadn't  occurred  to  him). — "  By  all  means,  sir, 
by  all  means.     Say  jest  what  you  like." 

Now  I  have  neither  the  eloquence  of  a  Disraeli  nor 
the  declamation  of  a  Demosthenes,  but  I  do  claim  to  have 
no  small  power  of  persuasion  when  it  comes  to  an  argu- 
ment or  a  question  of  opinion.  So  I  mustered  up  every 
effort  and  summoned  every  resource  to  convince  this 
malevolent  Judge  that  he  had  been  reading  his  "  Statoots  " 
upside  down  and  that,  far  from  being  incriminated,  I 
should,  on  the  contrary,  be  granted  a  handsome  award. 


40        ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

I  invoked  the  aid  of  every  artifice  known  to  humanity. 
Every  inflexion  of  the  voice  ;  every  modulation  of  speech  ; 
every  appeal  for  sympathy,  innocence,  ignorance  and 
youth  known  to  me  was  conjured  up. 

And  to  what  purpose  ?  Did  the  Judge  budge  ? — I 
might  as  well  have  read  him  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of 
the  Roman  Empire  in  five  minutes  for  all  the  good  it  did. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  he  said,  "  but  the  Statoot  says 
that  the  minimum  fine  is  25  dollars,  so  it  must  be  25 
dollars." 

"  But,  my  dear  good  Judge,"  said  I,  "  I've  only  got 
about  25  dollars  in  the  world  at  the  present  moment." 

"  Well,  I'm  very  sorry,  but  the  fine  is  25  dollars '" — (and 
then  an  afterthought) — "  Oh  !  and  costs  as  well." 

"  Costs ! "  I  gasped  in  amazement. 

"  Yes,  my  costs  will  be  75  cents,  and  that  makes  25 
dollars  75  cents  altogether." 

Then  ensued  more  argument,  more  persuasion,  more 
eloquence,  more  appeals,  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  I  took 
out  my  wallet  and  counted  out  my  belongings. 

I  had  just  25  dollars  and  a  few  odd  "  bits." 

And  then  the  humour  of  the  situation  appealed  to  me 
once  more,  and  stronger  than  ever  before.  I  laughed 
at  the  Cop  and  I  laughed  at  the  Judge  and  I  laughed  at 
myself  for  laughing  and  paid  over  the  25  dollars  75  cents. 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  Good-day,  sir,"  said  the 
Judge  as  he  put  the  "  bucks  "  loosely  in  the  drawer  in 
his  desk. 

Here  the  Cop  spoke  up :  "  I  have  another  charge 
against  the  defendant,  of  riding  without  his  registration 
certificate,  but  it's  getting  late,  and  I  think  we  might  as 
well  overlook  it  in  view  of  the  circumstances."  (He  was 
evidently  thinking  of  his  girl  waiting  outside.) 


EXCEEDING  THE   SPEED   LIMIT  41 

I  suggested  it  would  be  as  well  and  left  the  Judge  to 
gloat  over  his  ill-gotten  gains. 

The  idea  of  that  goat-faced  Judge  and  his  sleek-eyed 
friend  the  "  speed  cop  "  having  a  good  dinner  together 
at  my  expense  did  not  appeal  to  my  better  self.  How 
was  I  going  to  travel  450  miles,  buy  petrol,  oil  and  food 
with  about  tenpence  in  my  pocket  ?  On  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road  stood  Lizzie  with  her  carrier  piled  high 
and  dusty,  waiting,  patiently  waiting,  for  her  lord  and 
master.  Ah,  pathetic  sight ! — An  idea — I  return  to  the 
sanctum    of    the    "  Attorney-at-Law." 

He  was  counting  over  the  notes  again. 

"  Say,  Judge.  S'posing  you  give  me  those  notes  back 
again.  What '11  it  mean  in  imprisonment  ?  "  I  had 
always  since  childhood  cherished  a  wild  desire  to  spend 
a  night  in  prison.  "  The  Statoot  stipulates  that  there 
will  be  an  equivalent  of  one  day's  imprisonment  for 
every  dollar  fine."  (Depths  of  despair  once  more,  then 
enlightenment.)  "  Can  you  show  me  the  statute  that 
says    that?" 

"  Sure,"  and  he  reached  for  the  volume. 

"  All  right,  don't  bother,"  said  I,  and  left  him  once 
more  to  count  his  25  dollars  75  cents. 

Somehow  I  couldn't  help  laughing  at  everything. 
Such  interesting  sidelights  into  the  workings  of  the 
ragtime  laws  of  America  are  not  met  with  every  day  of 
the  year,  I  mused.  But  what  fun  to  be  all  alone  in 
America  with  nothing  but  a  motor-bike  and  tenpence  ! 

I  guess  the  Judge  was  wondering  what  I  was  laughing 
at  as  he  watched  me  through  the  fly-net  at  his  window 
while  I  kicked  the  engine  to  a  roar  and  rode  away. 

Truth  to  tell,  I  didn't  quite  know  myself. 

I  was  wondering  when  the  petrol  would  give  out. 


CHAPTER  V 

ACROSS  THE  ALLEGHANIES 

Strange  to  say,  I  felt  not  the  slightest  bit  "  peeved  " 
about  this  occurrence,  but  facts  have  to  be  faced,  and  any- 
one who  has  ever  found  himself  in  a  strange  land  4,000 
miles  from  home,  with  a  motor-bike  and  tenpence,  will 
agree  that  something  has  got  to  be  done  about  it  sooner 
or  later.  All  sorts  of  ways  and  means  of  making  money 
quickly — the  eternal  problem  ! — occurred  to  me,  but  I 
dismissed  them  all  for  one  reason  or  another.  I  could  hold 
up  the  next  car  I  passed  and  shoot  the  occupants  after 
relieving  them  of  their  surplus  cash.  But  that  I  thought 
was  a  distasteful  way  of  getting  money.  I  had  seen  it 
done  in  the  "  movies,"  but  decided  to  leave  that  modus 
operandi  for  a  last  extremity.  What  was  it  to  be — a 
week's  work  or  "trading  away"  the  watch  ?  I  pondered. 
I  got  very  little  inspiration  from  my  surroundings  on  a 
problem  of  such  moment.  Instead  I  was  exhorted  at 
almost  every  hundred  yards  to  "  Say  it  with  flowers  "  or 
to  "  Chew  our  famous  Smello'mint  Gum."  A  huge  yellow 
sign  would  then  loom  in  sight  bearing  the  legend  "  Play- 
time Biscuit."  Every  mile  or  so  would  appear  another 
and  more  ominous  inscription,  "  Sell  it  and  buy  a  Ford." 
"  For  all  internal  ailments  '  Kewrit '  is  the  Sovereign 
remedy,"  blurted  forth  another  placard.  "  The  Sovereign 
remedy,"  I  mused. — But  say !  What  was  that  ?  The 
Sovereign  remedy  ? — Inspiration  at  last.     Lizzie's  throt- 

42 


ACROSS   THE   ALLEGHANIES  43 

tie  seemed  to  close  its  eyes  with  a  snap.  The  brakes  went 
on  of  a  sudden  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  taking  off  my 
tunic  at  the  roadside.  The  memory  had  dawned  upon  me 
of  a  kind  sister  sewing  some  golden  sovereigns  in  the  lining 
of  the  belt  of  that  very  same  tunic  months  ago  way  back 
in  good  old  Brum.  She  had  no  doubt  imagined  me  falling 
into  the  hands  of  Mexican  bandits  at  some  period  in  my 
peregrinations.  At  first  I  remembered  I  had  protested 
against  such  a  seemingly  unnecessary  precaution.  Thank 
Heaven  that  argument  against  a  woman  is  never  of  any 
avail ! 

I  searched  and  I  found  ;  a  few  stitches  carefully  removed 
with  a  pocket-knife  revealed  two  glittering  "  yellow  boys  " 
to  my  anxious  gaze.  On  we  sped  once  again,  bounding, 
spinning  ever  faster  onward.  Truly  we  toiled  not,  but  we 
sure  did  spin.  If  the  sky  was  blue,  it  was  bluer  than  ever 
before.  If  the  road  had  been  good,  'twas  never  so  good 
as  now.  Refreshing  breezes  rolled  down  from  the  hills ; 
sweet  vistas  sprang  into  sight ;  charming  dells  and  stream- 
lets flitted  by,  and  never  did  the  call  of  nature  sound  so 
strong. 

And  all  because  of  two  forgotten  coins. 

Hagerstown  hardly  welcomed  me  with  open  arms.  A 
fair-sized,  prosperous  little  town,  it  boasted  a  tramway 
service  and  two  banks.  My  heart  went  not  forth  in  joy 
at  the  contemplation  of  the  tramway  service.  It  did  at 
the  sight  of  the  banks. 

Dusty,  dishevelled,  and  of  dilapidated  attire,  I  leant 
Lizzie  up  against  the  kerb  and  mounted  the  marble  steps 
of  the  "  First  National  Bank."  The  massive  swing-doors 
frowned  back  as  they  squeaked  and  groaned  to  my  com- 
mand. I  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  gilded  palace  replete  with 
austere-looking  deities  in  white  shirt-sleeves  behind  marble 


44        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

counters  and  fancy-work  grids.  Nothing  daunted,  I 
flicked  my  precious  sovereigns  on  the  counter  before 
the  very  quintessence  of  immaculate  manhood  with  a 
44  Change  those,  please  "  as  if  it  were  the  kind  of  thing 
I  did  every  day  of  my  life. 

Once  upon  a  time  I  had  often  with  swelling  pride 
expanded  my  chest  at  the  thought  of  a  British  sovereign 
being  honoured  in  every  country  of  the  world  and  any 
corner  of  the  globe.  I  had  reckoned  without  Hagers- 
town.  It  seemed  that  the  austere-looking  deity  before 
referred  to  was  not  at  all  impressed  by  my  view  of  the 
situation.  It  must  have  been  the  personal  tout  ensemble 
that  put  him  on  his  guard.  He  might  oblige  me  by 
sending  it  along  to  New  York  to  the  Head  Office,  he 
said.     "  Couldn't  wait  a  couple  of  days  ?  "  he  supposed. 

It  was  no  use.  He  didn't  like  my  face  and  didn't  want 
my  gold. 

I  scraped  the  dirt  from  my  boots  on  his  marble  steps 
and  crossed  the  road  to  the  44  Incorporated  Bank  of 
Holland." 

After  conducting  a  lengthy  battle  of  argument  and 
exhortation  with  all  the  clerks  in  succession  and  all  to 
no  avail,  I  began  to  realize  that  British  currency  was  of 
no  more  worth  than  the  little  sea-shells  that  in  the 
earliest  days  of  trade  were  supposed  to  be  used  by  the 
enterprising  natives  of  prehistoric  communities.  With 
a  gallant  show  of  indignation  I  demanded  that  the 
manager  be  produced  forthwith.  Strange  to  say,  he 
appeared.  I  took  him  on  one  side  and  into  my  confidence. 
44  Look  here,  old  man,"  quoth  I,  44  I'm  in  a  bit  of  a  hole. 
All  your  worthy  satellites  here  think  I'm  a  sort  of  cross 
between  a  rubberneck  and  a  highway  robber.  Fact  is, 
I've  been  rushed  for  speeding  at  the  last  village  and  I've 


ACROSS  THE  ALLEGHANIES  45 

only  got  two  sovereigns  to  take  me  to  Cincinnati.  Now 
don't  tell  me  you  won't  change  them."  Whereupon 
he  looked  warily  at  me  and  then  at  the  gold,  examining 
it  minutely.  "  Guess  I  might  fix  it  for  you,  but  just 
hang  on  a  minute  till  I  can  get  some  one  to  identify  them. 
We  never  see  such  things  as  these,  y'know." 

In  a  few  minutes  he  returned  with  an  accomplice, 
who  glared  with  amazement  at  the  coins  as  they  lay  on 
the  counter.  "  Gor'  blimey  I  "  said  he,  "  don't  that  do 
yer  blinkin'  eyes  good !  Strike  me  pink,  an'  you've 
brought  these  ole  yallerboys  orl  the  way  from  England  ?  " 
and  he  picked  them  up  reverently  and  gloated  over  their 
merry  chinkle  as  he  dropped  them  again  on  the  counter. 
"  Lor',  I've  spent  many  a  one  on  'em  !  How  much  d'ye 
want  for  them,  gev'nor  ?  " 

"  Four  dollars  eighty  each,"  I  replied. 

"JDone !  Pass  him  the  'oof,  boss.  Nuthin'  wrong 
wi'  them." 

Verily  is  it  said  that  music  hath  charms  for  the  savage 
breast.  Once  again  Lizzie  burst  into  a  roar,  and  once 
again  I  turned  her  nose  to  the  west. 

Music  ?  That  Cockney's  dialect  seemed  like  a  wonder- 
ful fragrant  melody  pealing  forth  through  the  strains 
of  a  ponderous  fugue.  It  was  like  a  sudden  rift  in  the 
thunderclouds  through  which  burst  a  cheering  shaft  of 
sunlight.  It  was  sacrilege  even  to  think  of  those  nine 
paper  dollars  that  I  had  thrust  so  anxiously  into  my 
hip-pocket.  "  Thank  Heaven  there  is  at  least  one  spot 
in  the  U.S.A.  where  the  King's  English  is  spoken  un- 
dented,"   I   murmured   to   myself. 

The  road  to  Cumberland  was  good  going.  We  had 
now   to   commence   crossing   the   Alleghany   Mountains. 


46        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

This  wonderful  range,  which  also  goes  by  the  name  of 
the  Appalachians,  has,  in  my  opinion,  no  rival  in  the 
American  Rockies  as  regards  the  loveliness  of  its  scenery 
and  the  infinite  variations  of  colour  of  its  slopes.  "  The 
best  scenery  in  the  world,  sir,"  an  American  would  say, 
and  he  would  not  be  so  very  far  wrong  either.  Perhaps 
its  heights  are  not  so  majestic  as  those  of  the  Rockies ; 
there  may  be  no  glaciers  on  its  slopes  nor  crests  of 
eternal  glistening  white  on  its  peaks,  but  there  is  an 
unparalleled  wealth  of  natural  beauty  in  the  blue  and 
purple  pine  forests  of  its  less  aspiring  heights  and  the 
myriad  glistening  streams  and  rivers  that  find  their  source 
in  the  thickly- wooded  foothills  clustering  around  its  borders. 

"  Cumberland  "  is  a  comparatively  large  town  in  the 
middle  of  the  hills  and  is  well  named.  Undoubtedly  the 
surrounding  district  reminded  the  early  settlers  so  forcibly 
of  our  own  lake  district  that  they  were  inspired  to 
perpetuate  its  memory,  as  they  have  done  in  so  many 
other  districts,  towns  and  rivers  in  the  far-eastern  or 
"  New  England "  States.  Although  the  descent  from 
the  mountains  was  in  places  almost  precipitous,  the  road 
was  excellent,  and  excepting  the  concrete  boulevards  of 
California,  afforded  undoubtedly  the  best  running  that 
I  met  in  the  whole  country.  Although  I  stopped  several 
times  for  considerable  periods  to  allow  the  brakes  to  cool, 
there  was  nothing  left  of  the  brake-linings  when  ultimately 
I  arrived  in  Cumberland,  where  I  ministered  adequate 
and  well-earned  refreshment  to  the  inner  man  of  both 
Lizzie  and  myself. 

The  road  now  lay  clear  of  obstructions  ahead  and  led 
over  undulating  country  for  several  hundred  miles.  Once 
more  thoughts  of  Cincinnati  in  the  distance  with  a  vague 
anticipation  of  something  approaching  "  England,  Home 


ACROSS  THE  ALLEGHANIES  47 

and  Beauty  " — and  money  as  well — occupied  the  hours 
as  we  sped  along,  leaving  the  mile-posts  quickly  behind 
us.  In  places  travelling  was  good.  In  places  it  was 
distinctly  bad.  Here  and  there  were  stretches  of 
several  miles  of  brick  road,  and  now  and  then  would 
reappear  our  old  friend  the  "  Natural  Gravel,"  that 
so  much  conspired  to  make  life  on  two  wheels  not  worth 
living.  At  times  even  that  provided  quite  a  respectable 
surface.  My  firm  intentions  not  to  be  baulked  in  my 
aim  to  reach  Cincinnati  next  day,  however,  kept  up  the 
pace  even  if  to  our  mutual  discomfort,  and  made  the 
going  good. 

At  Uniontown,  about  seventy-five  miles  past  Cumber- 
land, various  trivial  little  knocks  and  rattles  in  the  engine 
disturbed  my  peace  of  mind.  The  speedometer  registered 
only  about  800  miles,  and  I  had  hardly  expected  to 
commence  tightening  things  internally  at  that  stage. 
A  little  farther  on  and  one  cylinder,  after  a  few  per- 
emptory misfires,  gave  up  the  ghost  altogether,  and  I 
proceeded  a  few  miles  on  three  only.  I  changed  the 
sparking  plug,  hoping  for  better  results,  but  in  vain. 
After  a  few  more  miles  I  tried  another  plug  and  then 
another,  but  always  with  the  same  result.  After 
travelling  a  few  dozen  miles  in  this  unsatisfactory  manner, 
I  put  Lizzie  once  again  on  her  stand.  This  time  I 
examined  closely  and  found  the  valves,  tappets  and 
clearances  all  in  good  condition.  There  was  apparently 
nothing  wrong  with  the  ignition  either,  or  the  carburettor, 
and  there  seemed  no  reason  at  all  why  such  a  trouble 
should  arise — particularly,  I  reflected,  as  I  was  anxious 
to  lose  no  valuable  time.  On  trying  still  another  plug 
out  of  one  of  the  other  cylinders  and  finding  that  No.  1 
was  still  obstinate,  I  got  on  again,  determined  to  do  the 


48        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

journey  on  three  cylinders  only.  I  found  I  could  touch 
well  over  forty-five  even  at  that,  so  after  all  there  wasn't 
much  to  complain  about.  Every  motorist,  however, 
who  has  a  regard  for  his  engine  and  can  sense  the 
"  moral  fitness  "  of  even  running  and  good  rhythm  will 
understand  that  travelling  under  such  circumstances  is 
decidedly  unpleasant  and  monotonous. 

At  Waynesburg  I  passed  Pittsburg  some  miles  to  the 
right,  the  "  Birmingham  "  of  America,  the  centre  of  a 
huge  coal  and  iron  industry  and,  next  to  Philadelphia, 
the  largest  town  in  Pennsylvania.  A  few  miles  farther 
on,  and  I  crossed  the  border-line  and  entered  West  Vir- 
ginia once  again.  It  was  now  quite  dark  and  1  had  to 
pick  out  the  road  as  best  I  could  by  my  headlight. 
I  was  getting  tired  and  was  very  hungry,  not  having 
had  anything  to  eat  for  ten  hours.  After  half  an  hour 
the  headlight  flickered  and  went  out,  leaving  me  with 
only  a  "  dimmer,"  as  the  Americans  call  the  small 
auxiliary  light,  with  which  to  keep  on  the  road  and  find 
the  way.  The  engine,  which  before  sounded  pretty 
loose,  now  emitted  noises  signifying  extreme  agony 
of  mind.  Then  a  thick  ground  mist  settled  over  every- 
thing, making  it  next  to  impossible  to  keep  on  the  road 
at  all,  much  less  to  keep  on  the  right  one.  Occasionally 
I  dismounted  in  an  endeavour  to  bring  the  headlight 
back  to  life.  Frequently  I  narrowly  avoided  being  run 
down  by  large  cars  with  powerful  searchlights  that 
couldn't  see  me  at  all.  It  generally  meant  pulling  into 
the  side  of  the  road,  getting  off  and  waving  my  arms 
frantically  to  signify  my  presence.  Between  time  I  got 
more  hungry  and  more  tired,  and  kept  asking  myself 
the  same  question,  "  Why,  oh  why  did  I  leave  England  ?  " 
The   answer   always   came :    "  Search   me!" 


ACROSS  THE  ALLEGHANIES  49 

Shortly  before  midnight  I  reached  the  small  town  of 
"  Mounds ville,"  on  the  Ohio  River  and  on  the  borders 
of  West  Virginia  and  Ohio.  Every  shop  in  the  place  was 
closed  except  that  of  a  corpulent  Italian  dealer  in 
bananas,  oranges  and  ice-cream  sodas.  I  entered  his  door 
with  thanksgiving.  The  worthy  proprietor  scrutinized 
me  open-mouthed.  Finally  he  gave  it  up.  I  could  see 
he  had  been  wondering  to  himself,  "  What  is  this  thing, 
and  whence  came  it  ?  "  I  sat  on  the  counter  in  his  presence 
and  consumed  three  ice-cream  sodas,  four  bananas  and 
two  oranges.  After  witnessing  their  consumption,  he 
let  drop  his  bottom  jaw  and  ventured,  "  Whare  yer  from  ?  " 

"  Doanchew  worry  your  old  think-box  about  where 
I'm  from,  brother,  but  just  tell  me  where  I'm  goin'.  I 
wonna  get  to  Cincinnati.  Now  for  the  love  of  Mike  don't 
tell  me  I'm  not  on  the  right  road." 

His  jaw  dropped  through  a  further  angle  of  ten  degrees. 
Finally  he  volunteered  the  information  that  I  was  miles 
and  miles  from  the  road  to  Cincinnati,  and  that  he  hadn't 
the  "  goldarnest  notion  "  how  I  should  ever  get  back  on 
it  again.  In  disgust  I  filled  my  pockets  with  bananas 
and  oranges  and  presented  one  more  ice-cream  soda  to 
the  minister  for  the  interior  and  quitted  his  establishment. 

My  next  duty  was  to  find  somewhere  to  lay  my  weary 
head.  I  decided  to  choose  a  spot  where  water  was 
convenient,  so  that  I  could  wash  in  the  morning.  The 
river  was  quite  inaccessible  from  the  road  and  the  only 
places  where  there  chanced  to  be  a  stream  were  infested 
with  frogs  and  mosquitoes.  After  a  half-hour  of  weary 
searching  and  climbing  of  long  winding  hills  in  the  thick 
damp  fog,  I  eventually  gave  it  up  in  disgust.  I  found 
an  open  space  at  the  roadside  sheltered  by  a  few  trees, 
and  here  laid  down  my  rainproof  coat  with  the  thick 


50        ACROSS   AMERICA   BY   MOTOR-CYCLE 

blanket  doubled  on  top  of  it,  and  with  my  suit-case  as 
a  pillow,  soon  convinced  myself  that  I  was  comfortably 
settled  down  for  sleep.  In  a  few  minutes  I  was  well  in 
the  land  of  dreams.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  journeying 
to  the  North  Pole  on  a  twelve-cylinder  Ford  which  went 
so  fast  that  it  melted  the  ice  as  it  passed  and  ultimately 
crashed  into  the  Pole  at  such  a  terrific  velocity  that 
the  equilibrium  of  the  earth  was  entirely  upset,  as  also 
my  own.  At  this  point  a  lusty  mosquito  inflicted  a 
tremendous  bite  on  the  very  tip  of  my  nose,  and  I  woke 
up  with  a  start.  Then  I  dreamed  that  I  had  undertaken 
a  banana-eating  tournament  with  an  army  of  Italians, 
and  was  just  finishing  off  the  ninety-ninth  when  another 
bite  in  the  middle  of  my  left  eyelid  brought  me  again 
to  normal  consciousness,  and  thus  the  night  passed. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  DIXIE  HIGHWAY 

In  the  morning  everything  was  wet  with  dew.  The 
mist  was  disappearing  quickly,  and  I  arose  refreshed 
in  body  and  mind.  Specialists  would  have  prognos- 
ticated acute  rheumatism.  Doctors  would  have  fore- 
told death  within  forty-eight  hours.  But  I  was  never 
so  free  from  rheumatism  as  I  am  now ;  moreover,  I  live 
to  tell  the  tale,  with  the  probability  of  continued  exis- 
tence for  several  years  to  come.  Lizzie  looked  dis- 
consolate and  rusty  in  every  nut  and  bolt,  but  with 
a  few  kicks  she  rattled  into  life  once  more.  The  driver 
of  a  passing  Ford  informed  me  that  I  was  twenty  miles 
from  the  right  road,  which  meant  returning  into 
Moundsville  and  crossing  over  the  broad,  muddy  Ohio 
River,  spanned  by  a  lofty  suspension  bridge  made  almost 
entirely  of  wood.  The  Ohio  River,  once  seen,  is  never 
to  be  forgotten.  It  is  verily  a  flowing  mass  of  dirty, 
yellow-brown  mud.  The  natives  of  Ohio  refer  to  it 
as  the  "  Golden  "  River,  I  believe,  but  when  I  first  made 
its  acquaintance,  I  was  in  no  mood  to  appreciate  such 
poetic  nomenclature.  Instead  I  was  bent  on  reaching 
Wheeling  and  breakfast. 

Wheeling  was  reached  in  a  couple  of  hours'  riding 
along  the  banks  of  the  river.  It  need  hardly  be  said 
that  I  did  justice  to  a  substantial  breakfast,  which  put 
an  entirely  new  aspect  on  affairs  in  general.     I    struck 

51 


52        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

the  main  "  pike  "  through  to  Cincinnati,  and  continued 
hopefully  on  three  cylinders  with  the  best  of  intentions 
of  reaching  it  that  evening,  although  it  meant  a  ride  of 
over  300  miles. 

I  did  150  in  fairly  good  time  and  reckoned  on  having 
my  lunch-tea-dinner-supper  meal  at  Columbus,  the 
State  capital,  about  five  in  the  afternoon.  But  about 
twenty  miles  from  that  city  a  most  distressing  sound 
arose  from  the  engine.  I  had  previously  slackened 
down  to  a  steady  thirty  miles  an  hour  so  as  to  give 
Lizzie  the  best  chance  of  holding  out  over  the  journey. 
But  now  a  series  of  violent  thumps  and  bangs  dis- 
turbed once  and  for  all  my  hopeful  frame  of  mind. 
Undoubtedly  there  was  a  big  breakage  somewhere  and 
it  was  evidently  quite  impossible  to  continue  another 
mile.  With  a  final  thud  the  engine  stopped  and  the 
machine  came  to  a  standstill  near  a  little  bridge  where 
a  tiny  streamlet  trickled  under  the  roadway.  Near  the 
bridge  was,  as  might  be  expected,  the  inevitable  hoarding  : 
11  Sell  it  and  buy  a  Ford."  Strange  that  Fate  should 
at  times  be  so  ironical ! 

I  made  myself  comfortable  on  a  grassy  slope  and 
proceeded  to  take  the  engine  down.  This  I  soon 
discovered  was  no  mean  task.  It  took  nearly  three 
hours  to  remove  the  cylinders.  Woe  be  unto  the  man 
hereafter  who  puts  nuts  where  they  cannot  be  loosened 
or  places  cylinders  where  they  cannot  be  removed  save 
by  an  Indian  sword-swallower  !  The  result  of  my 
investigations  was  that  I  found  the  front  piston  in 
fragments,  mainly  in  the  bottom  of  the  crank-case.  The 
gudgeon  pin  was  broken  in  half  and  the  connecting  rod  was 
waggling  about  merrily  in  the  cylinder.  All  the  bearings 
were  loose,  and  although  there  was  plenty  of  oil  in  the 


THE  DIXIE   HIGHWAY  53 

sump,  one  was  devoid  of  metal  altogether.  This  was 
discovered  at  the  bottom  in  the  form  of  powder.  An 
encouraging  outlook  indeed ! 

Although  my  motto  where  a  refractory  motor  is 
concerned — "  to  get  it  home  somehow  " — could  have 
been  ignored,  I  was  not  even  in  walking  distance  of 
anywhere.  There  was  no  town  or  village  for  miles 
around,  and  only  a  solitary  farmhouse  here  and  there. 
Further,  an  empty  stomach  does  not  improve  one's 
outlook  on  life  under  such  circumstances,  and  mine  was 
very  empty.  I  took  stock  of  the  whole  situation. 
What  should  it  be  ?  Walk  to  Columbus  and  take  the 
train,  or  stick  by  Lizzie  and  get  along  somehow  ?  I 
counted  out  my  money.  It  amounted  to  three  dollars 
and  thirty-five  cents,  not  even  enough  for  the  railway 
fare.  "  No,  I've  set  out  to  cross  these  infernal  States 
on  a  motor-cycle,  and  I'll  do  it,"  I  resolved,  and  sat  down 
again  to  patch  Lizzie's  engine  together. 

The  rumble  of  cart  wheels  on  the  brick  road  attracted 
my  attention.  The  cart  was  drawn  by  a  weary  horse 
in  the  charge  of  a  more  weary  driver. 

"Hi,  brother,  got  anything  edible  on  board/?  "    I  shouted. 

"  I  gotta  lot  o'  old  boots  here,"  he  replied,  evidently 
in  ignorance  of  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  edible." 

"  No,  thanks,  I  gotta  good  pair  of  my  own  to  start  on 
before   I   come   to   that.    Aincher   got   any   oranges  ? " 

"  Yep,  I  got  one  box  left,  four  fer  a  quarter." 

Bang  went  seventy-five  cents  for  a  dozen,  leaving  me 
with  two  dollars  sixty.  Now,  thought  I,  I  have  enough 
provisions  to  last  a  couple  of  days.  Let  Old  Harry  do 
his  worst. 

The  vendor  of  boots,  furniture,  and  oranges  went  on  his 
weary  way. 


54        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

From  a  bough  of  a  willow  tree  I  shaped  a  neat  gudgeon 
pin  that  fitted  dead  into  the  loose  end  of  the  connecting 
rod  to  guide  it  up  and  down  in  the  cylinder.  I  fished 
out  all  the  big  lumps  of  the  broken  piston  that  re- 
mained in  the  crank-case  and  tightened  up  the  bearings 
as  well  as  I  could.  By  the  time  it  was  dark  I  had 
everything  replaced  ready  to  start  on  the  road  once 
more. 

Before  daybreak,  I  was  up  and  on  the  road ;  my 
plan  was  to  keep  on  all  day  at  a  steady  twenty  miles 
an  hour  and  reach  Cincinnati  about  five  in  the  after- 
noon. The  machine  ran  well  considering  its  wooden 
gudgeon  pin,  although  it  was  not  easy  to  avoid  being 
reminded  continually  of  Lizzie's  indisposition,  and  as 
time  went  on  the  rattles  became  worse,  the  clanks  became 
gradually  louder,  and  I  began  to  wonder  where  my  next 
stop  would  be. 

I  passed  through  Columbus  about  breakfast-time, 
but  did  not  stop  for  breakfast.  There  was  no  money 
for  breakfasts.  Now,  although  I  did  not  stop  at  Col- 
umbus, I  cannot  with  but  a  few  words  dismiss  it  entirely 
from  consideration.  Although  not  by  any  means  the 
largest  town  in  Ohio,  it  is  the  State  capital.  That 
feature,  as  I  have  pointed  out  before,  is  not  at  all  unique 
in  the  States.  In  fact,  I  do  not  think  I  could  name  a 
single  State  capital  that  is  the  largest  town  of  the  State, 
without  referring  to  the  authority  of  one  Baedeker. 
Not  only  are  there  over  125,000  people  in  Columbus,  but 
it  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  very  fine  city.  The  streets 
are  wider  and  are  better  paved  than  those  of  most 
American  cities,  and  in  places  are  illuminated  by  large 
electric  arches.  Although  there  are  seven  towns 
throughout  America  boasting  this  title  (each  one  in  a 


THE  DIXIE   HIGHWAY  55 

different  State),  I  think  Columbus,  Ohio,  must  be  the 
ilite  of  all  the  Columbuses. 

Outside  Columbus  I  stopped,  had  lunch — three 
oranges — and  continued.  There  was  really  no  necessity 
to  stop,  but  I  liked  to  feel  that  lunch  was  just  as  im- 
portant an  occasion  as  when  it  wasn't  oranges. 

The  engine  was  by  now  getting  rather  noisy.  People 
who  passed  in  cars,  many  of  whom  I  had  passed  two  days 
before,  slowed  down  as  they  approached  and  looked  at  me 
wonderingly,  as  if  to  ask  if  I  knew  anything  about  it.  They 
probably  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  a  deaf-mute. 

Then  we  got  to  Springfield,  and  a  noticeable  feature 
at  the  side  of  the  road,  on  a  special  track  of  its  own, 
was  an  electric  train  service  connecting  up  all  the  large 
towns  in  the  district,  even  though  the  distances  amounted 
to  thirty  and  forty  miles,  in  some  cases  even  fifty,  as  is 
the  case  between  Columbus  and  Springfield.  Perhaps 
I  am  complimenting  them  by  referring  to  them  as  trains, 
as  they  are  more  in  the  nature  of  single  or  double-coach 
trams,  but  I  was  surprised  not  only  by  the  speed  at 
which  they  travelled,  but  also  by  the  number  of 
passengers  who  availed  themselves  of  the  service.  In 
a  way,  the  presence  of  that  track  was  comforting,  par- 
ticularly when  some  new  noise  or  rattle  emanated  from 
my  thrice-weary  steed.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  dis- 
tinctly humiliating  to  be  astride  a  10  h.p.  motor-cycle 
de  luxe,  jogging  along  side-saddle  (to  ease  the  growing 
soreness !)  at  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  per  hour  on  three 
crotchety  cylinders,  when  a  tram-load  of  disinterested 
Americans  flies  past  with  a  shriek  at  forty  or  fifty. 
Generally  the  driver  realized  the  position  and  sounded 
a  piercing  whistle  with  a  supercilious  air,  as  if  to  say : 
"  Make  way  for  the  fast  traffic,  please !  " 


56        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

At  Springfield  the  speedometer  flicked  off  the  1,000th 
mile,  and  I  branched  away  from  the  "  Pike's  Peak " 
Ocean-to-Ocean  Highway  (for  such  it  appeared  to  be), 
and  turned  south-westward  towards  Dayton,  a  flourishing 
manufacturing  and  business  centre.  "  Detours "  and 
sub-detours  were  the  order  of  the  day  and  were  con- 
spicuous by  their  presence,  as  also  by  the  general  loose- 
ness and  rottenness  of  their  surface.  In  theory  I  was 
travelling  upon  the  "  Dixie  Highway,"  reputed  (by 
advertisements  thereon  appearing)  to  be  u  the  finest 
and  most  luxurious  highway  in  the  States."  As  far  as 
my  experience  was  concerned,  I  found  it  paved  with 
good  intentions  and  bad  cobblestones.  Sometimes,  when 
the  paving  blocks  had  been  pulled  up  preparatory  to 
new  ones  being  laid  down,  the  surface  was  tolerably 
good,  but  then  would  appear  a  "  detour  "  heralded  by 
an  insolently-improvised  notice-board  which  led  the 
unfortunate  traveller  miles  and  miles  from  his  appointed 
path  and  over  the  most  disgusting  road-surface  ima- 
ginable. 

I  was  pleased  with  Dayton.  As  I  left  it  behind  me, 
I  wished  it  prosperity.  It  seemed  to  have  the  right 
kind  of  air  about  it.  A  friendly  policeman  held  up  a 
bunch  of  traffic  for  two  minutes  for  me  while  he  put  me 
"  wise  "  to  the  road  to  take.  He  noticed  my  New  York 
number-plate  and  finished  his  chat  with  "  Well,  good 
day,  brother,  and  the  best  of  luck  to  you."  I  wouldn't 
even  have  killed  a  mosquito  in  Dayton ! 

It  was  now  well  after  midday.  Cincinnati  was  still 
about  sixty  miles  away.  Would  it  be  safe  to  have  a  meal 
in  the  next  town  ?  I  had  filled  up  with  "  gas  "  and  oil 
in  Dayton  and  had  about  fifty  cents  (2s.)  left.  With 
a  three  days'  diet  of  oranges,  I  had  cultivated  an  appetite 


THE   DIXIE  HIGHWAY  57 

of  great  latent  possibilities.  I  determined  to  be  rash. 
Next  stop,  I  told  myself,  I  would  look  around  for  a 
u  bakeshop." 

An  hour  later  I  arrived  at  a  little  town  called 
"  Lebanon."  It  was  very  small,  very  picturesque,  and 
very  unpretentious.  But  it  boasted  an  excellent  "  bake- 
shop." I  leant  Lizzie  against  the  kerb  outside  and 
pressed  my  nose  against  the  window-pane.  The  sight 
of  all  those  nice  cakes  was  almost  as  good  as  a  feed — 
but  not  quite  !  I  espied  one,  plain  and  large  but  tasty- 
looking.  I  valued  it  at  twenty-five  cents.  "  Well, 
it'll  last  a  long  time,"  I  thought,  and  entered  meekly  to 
inquire  the  price.  "Five  cents,"  replied  the  lady  of  the 
counter.  "  Done !  It's  mine,  all  of  it !  " 
Long  live  Lebanon ! 

A  few  miles  out,  I  halted  near  a  bridge  under  which  ran 
a  little   stream  of  crystal  water.     It  was   a   treat  to  be 
out  of  the  glare  of  the  baking  sun,  so  I  sat  down  on  the 
bank  underneath  the  bridge  and  settled  down  in  earnest 
to  a  sumptuous  dinner.     The  bill  of  fare  was  as  follows  : — 
Hors  oVceuvres  Gateau  de  Lebanon  (varie). 
ConsommS    .     Eau  Naturelle. 
Entrie    .      .     Gateau  de  Lebanon. 
Plat  du  jour  Ditto. 

Ligumes       .  Ditto. 

Dessert         .  Ditto. 

Wines     ,     .     Vin   blanc   d'Adam   (direct  from 
the  distillery). 
And  oh,   what   a   meal   was   there,   my  countrymen ! 
There    was    enough    and    to    spare.     The    cooking    was 
excellent,  the  service  irreproachable,  and  there  were  no 
gratuities. 
After  a  leisurely  half-hour  I  stuffed  what  little  cake 


58        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

I  couldn't  contain  into  the  tool-box,  took  one  last,  lingering 
draught  from  the  cool  crystal  stream,  and  again  kicked 
Lizzie  into  a  rattle. 

Once  more  towards  Cincinnati !  Two  hours  only, 
now,  I  reminded  myself,  and  all  the  trees  and  birds  in 
hearing.  Gradually  those  two  hours  became  shorter 
as  mile  after  weary  mile  rattled  past.  Sure  enough,  in 
about  the  time  I  had  reckoned  the  pot-holes  in  the  road 
grew  larger  and  the  ruts  deeper,  a  sure  sign  of  approaching 
civilization.  Then  a  huge  signboard  appeared,  "  Cin- 
cinnati, the  Queen  City  of  the  West.  Make  your 
home  in  Cincinnati." 

The  Cincinnati  Speedway  was  passed  on  the  right, 
and  after  a  couple  of  miles  or  more  I  struck  tram-lines. 
The  reader  can  well  imagine  how  glad  and  relieved  I  felt 
when  I  spotted  trams  and  tram-lines,  those  things  which 
in  normal  life  I  rightly  detest  and  abhor.  Whereas  once 
upon  a  time  I  considered  them  to  be  the  motorist's 
greatest  enemy,  I  now  smiled  upon  them  with  friendly 
gaze. 

By  the  time  I  was  actually  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
I  was  "  baked  to  a  frizzle."  And  such  a  thirst !  For 
three  days  I  had  been  amassing  a  good  thirst.  Ohio 
mud  is  not  really  a  good  beverage.  It  might  perhaps 
"  put  one  over  "  the  "  near  "  beer  that  I  have  tasted  in 
various  American  towns,  but  that's  not  to  be  wondered 
at.  The  man  who  first  called  it  "  near "  beer  wasn't 
much  of  a  judge  of  distance  !  Never  could  I  remember 
having  been  so  hot,  so  thirsty,  and  so  fed  up,  all  in  one. 
I  pulled  up  at  the  first  drug  store  and  literally  squandered 
twenty-five  cents  in  an  orgy  of  ice-cream  sodas.  I  took 
the  precaution  to  retain  ten  cents,  however,  "  in  case 
anything  turned  up." 


THE  DIXIE  HIGHWAY  59 

At  about  half -past  four  we  arrived.  A  wealth  of 
meaning  rests  in  those  two  words.  My  friend  Steve 
heard  the  noise  as  he  sat  reading  on  the  verandah  of 
3,450  Clifton  Avenue.  "That  can't  be  Shep.  That's 
somebody  wheeling  a  lawn-mower,"  he  said  to  himself 
without  looking-up,  and  went  on  with  his  book.  But 
when  the  lawn-mower  had  overrun  itself  and  turned 
round  and  came  back  and  continued  indefinitely  to  lawn- 
mow  outside  the  same  3,450,  he  looked  up  and  saw  that 
it  was  indeed  a  motor-cycle  or,  at  any  rate,  the  unmistak- 
able remnants  of  one.  When  he  saw  the  rider,  he  thought : 
"  No,  that  can't  be  Shep  after  all ;    that's  the  dustman." 

But  fact  will  always  triumph  over  fiction.  In  the 
same  way  soap,  thank  Heaven,  will  always  triumph  over 
dirt.  But  what  a  relief  to  be  once  again  in  a  comfortable 
house,  that  could  almost  be  considered  "  home,"  and  once 
more  to  know  the  joys  of  a  good  hot  bath  and  feel  the 
luxurious  embrace  of  clean  clothes  again ! 


CHAPTER  VII 
CINCINNATI  AND  ONWARDS 

I  spent  in  all  twelve  days  in  Cincinnati.  They  were 
twelve  happy  days ;  days  of  leisure,  days  of  interesting 
experiences,  followed  by  days  of  longing  to  be  on  the  road 
again. 

The  first  of  July,  1919,  will  live  in  the  mind  of  every 
free-born  American  citizen  as  the  day  when  Prohibition 
became  law  throughout  the  entire  States.  Not  by  design, 
but  by  coincidence,  was  it  also  the  date  of  my  departure 
from  my  friends  in  Cincinnati  to  explore  the  "  perils  " 
of  the  West.  My  sojourn  there  was  brought  to  a  sudden 
close  by  the  astounding  discovery  that  Lizzie's  over- 
haul was  completed.  I  had  a  few  warm  things  to  observe 
when  I  was  presented  with  the  repair  bill.  It  amounted 
to  a  mere  seventy-five  dollars,  half  of  which  represented 
the  alleged  value  of  the  somewhat  indifferent  labours 
of  a  more  indifferent  mechanic  and  a  small  boy.  On 
the  various  occasions  when  I  had  visited  the  shop,  the 
mechanic  was  generally  conspicuous  by  his  absence,  and 
were  it  not  for  the  occasional  activities  of  the  small  boy, 
who  seemed  to  delight  in  "  salivating "  at  frequent 
intervals  on  every  available  inch  of  the  floor  surrounding 
Lizzie's  remains,  I  feel  inclined  to  think  that  I  should 
even  now  be  enjoying  myself  in  Cincinnati.  The  other 
half  of  the  bill  represented  sundry  replacements  which, 
to  my  way  of  thinking,  should  have  been  made  free  under 

60 


CINCINNATI  AND   ONWARDS  61 

the  firm's  guarantee,  which  had  still  three-fourths  of 
its  term  to  expire.  After  much  argument,  the  proprietor 
and  myself  agreed  to  differ  on  this  point. 

The  early  afternoon  witnessed  my  departure.  The 
kindly  attentions  of  mine  hostess  had  provided  me  with 
good  things  for  the  journey.  Meat  sandwiches  in  boxes  ; 
fresh  butter  in  tins ;  fruit  and  nuts  galore.  Little 
packages  were  squeezed  in  here  and  big  ones  strapped 
on  there.  Odd  corners  and  crevices  revealed  an  un- 
suspected orange  or  banana  and  hard-boiled  eggs  or 
biscuits  in  twos  and  threes  lurked  amongst  the  shirts 
and  socks. 

With  a  light  heart  I  spun  down  the  beautiful,  well- 
paved  avenues  that  set  at  defiance  the  rigid,  straight- 
edge avenues  of  more  modern  American  cities.  I  hummed 
over  the  cobble-stones  of  the  lesser  streets  and  swung 
past  trams  and  over  bridges  and  was  soon  speeding  along 
the  road  to  Indianapolis,  thinking  like  a  true  pessimist 
that  Lizzie  didn't  feel  as  well  as  I  had  hoped,  and  that 
I  should  be  hung  up  again  at  a  not  far-distant  date. 

In  America,  in  the  east,  it  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  take  the  wrong  road.  Moreover  it  is  generally 
the  most  difficult  thing  to  find  out  whether  one  is  on  the 
right  road  or  not.  I  have  no  objection  to  make  when 
roads  in  towns  and  villages  will  run  either  north  and 
south  or  east  and  west,  because  for  town  life  this  arrange- 
ment spells  efficiency.  In  the  country,  however,  the 
raison  d'etre  of  these  chess-board  roads  is  somewhat 
obscure.  When  combined  with  old-time  roads  that 
originally  followed  goat-paths  or  sheep-tracks,  its  effect 
is  confusing.  But  when  taken  to  the  extreme,  and  one 
finds  the  main  highways  connecting  large  cities  abound 
with  sharp  right-angle  turns  at  every  few  miles,  some- 


62        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

times  going  north  to  make  up  a  little  latitude,  then 
continuing  west,  then  returning  south  to  lose  the  latitude 
gained,  and  afterwards  continuing  west  again,  the  result 
is  ridiculous  and  sometimes  exasperating ;  very  often 
two,  three,  four,  or  more  roads  run  parallel  and  only  a  few 
yards  distant,  all  leading  to  the  same  place.  Sometimes 
they  lead  to  different  places.  Sometimes  they  lead 
nowhere  at  all.  Sign-posts  are  not  popular  anywhere  in 
the  United  States.  Instead  the  roads  are  identified  by 
painting  every  third  or  fourth  or  tenth  or  nth  telegraph 
pole  with  different  colours.  When  properly  carried  out, 
this  principle  is  a  very  commendable  one,  and  without 
it  travel  would  be  absolutely  impossible.  But  when 
followed  only  imperfectly,  or  when  the  colours  become 
faded  and  obliterated,  so  that  one  trail  can  be  easily 
mistaken  for  another,  the  traveller  has  many  troubles 
and  trials  ahead. 

I  had  ample  moral  consolation,  therefore,  for  com- 
pletely losing  my  way  only  ten  miles  out  of  Cincinnati, 
and  wasted  a  full  hour  in  trying  to  get  on  the  right  "  pike  " 
without  going  back. 

Incidentally  the  system  of  decorating  telegraph  poles  in 
accordance  with  the  trail  they  follow  has  its  humorous 
side.  There  are,  all  told,  over  a  hundred  different  trails 
or  "  National  Highways  "  in  different  parts  of  the  States, 
and  each  one  is  supposed  to  have  its  distinctive  sign. 
Thus  the  "  Pike's  Peak  Ocean-to-Ocean  Highway "  is 
identified  by  a  circle  of  scarlet  above  a  circle  of  white, 
and  the  "  Lincoln  Highway  "  by  circles  of  red,  white,  and 
blue.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  cases  of  the  "  Blackhawk 
Trail "  and  "  Mackinaw  Indian  Trail,"  the  sign  is  of  a 
more  or  less  complex  nature,  including  the  profile  of  an 
Indian's  head,  for  instance.     The  humour  of  the  situation 


CINCINNATI  AND   ONWARDS  68 

will  be  apparent  when  a  single  stretch  of  road  coin- 
cides with  say  four  or  five  separate  trails.  Each  telegraph 
pole  is  truly  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  for  ever,  with  its 
inscriptions,  circles,  squares,  profiles,  bales  of  cotton, 
etc.,  etc.,  painted  on  in  various  colours  from  top  to 
bottom ! 

In  large  towns  and  cities  where  several  trails  meet, 
it  requires  the  quintessence  of  alertness  and  deduction 
to  find  one's  way  by  the  telegraph  poles,  which,  save 
for  a  few  exceptions,  represent  the  only  means  of  iden- 
tification. Strange,  in  a  country  using  twenty  times  the 
number  of  cars  per  head  found  in  any  other  country  in 
the  world,  that  facilities  for  using  them  should  be  so 
meagre  as  at  times  to  be  almost  prehistoric ! 

It  is  strange  also  that  some  of  the  roads  that  were 
constructed  even  in  modern  times  were  the  achievement 
of  personal  enterprise  and  are  even  now  "  boosted " 
and  advertised  by  their  "  promotors."  An  outstanding 
case  is  that  of  the  "  Pike's  Peak  Highway  "  just  men- 
tioned, which  is  one  of  the  three  trails  that  cross  the 
Continent  from  east  to  west.  This  road  boasts  a  Presi- 
dent, three  Vice-Presidents,  and  a  Secretary-Treasurer ! 
Between  them  these  worthy  gentlemen  are  responsible 
for  the  proper  maintenance  of  the  road  (experience 
compels  a  sarcastic  smile),  and  for  the  furnishing  of 
information  to  travellers  thereon,  etc.  Where  the 
money  comes  from  I  wot  not,  unless  it  be  from  the 
various  motoring  clubs  in  the  country.  In  a  booklet, 
published  apparently  by  them,  it  is  described  as  "  The 
Appian  Way  of  America."  Permit  me  to  quote  passages 
from  this  remarkable  publication  : — 

"  Increased  attention  is  this  year  being  focussed  on 
the  '  See  America '  idea,  and  motorists  planning  a  trans- 


64        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

continental  trip  will  naturally  select  the  route  of  greatest 
scenic  and  historic  interest.  That  is  why  the  discrimina- 
ting tourist  will  travel  over  the  Pike's  Peak  Ocean-to- 
Ocean  Highway,  the  improved  central  route  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  coast.  From  New  York  it  follows 
the  National  Old  Trails  Road  to  Indianapolis ;  from 
that  city  to  Salt  Lake  City,  it  has  its  own  Distinctive 
Organisation  ;  and  west  of  Salt  Lake  City  it  follows 
the  line  of  the  Lincoln  Highway.  History  places  the 
stamp  of  approval  on  this  as  the  Logical  trans-continental 
Highway.  Etc.,  etc.  (pages  of  it).  .  .  .  The  trip  has 
no  dreariness  and  no  monotony.  .  .  .     (More  pages)." 

Never  was  such  a  grossly  misleading  impression  of 
ease,  comfort,  and  luxury  perpetrated  upon  an  unsus- 
pecting Englishman  !  It  was  well  said  that  the  pen  is 
mightier  than  the  sword.  If  ever  again  I  find  myself 
so  utterly  demented  as  to  motor-cycle  across  the  United 
States  before  proper  roads  have  been  constructed,  may 
Heaven  preserve  me  from  "  The  Appian  Way  of  America  "  ! 

The  reader  may  think  that  I  am  dwelling  unduly  on 
the  subject  of  roads,  but  I  do  so  at  this  juncture  because 
it  was  a  subject  which  now  became  of  increasing  mag- 
nitude. Practically  the  last  sign  of  paved  road  of  any 
kind  between  this  point  and  the  Pacific  Coast  (some 
2,500  miles  away)  would  be  encountered  at  Indianapolis, 
and  from  there  onwards  were  universally  the  execrable 
"  dirt "  roads  that  so  seriously  threaten  not  only  the 
comfort  but  the  safety  of  motor-cycling.  I  was  not  even 
disappointed  at  the  outlook,  because  I  came  to  America 
without  even  expecting  any  form  of  trail  or  route  across 
its  entirety  to  be  at  my  disposal.  But  I  feel  the  natural 
resentment  of  the  Englishman  when  I  am  led  to  believe 
that  there  is  a  luxurious    "  highway  "   ahead,   only  to 


CINCINNATI   AND   ONWARDS  65 

find  an  aggravated  series  of  dust-heaps,  mud-pools,  and 
cow-paths  ! 

The  road,  however,  to  Indianapolis  was  not  of  the 
"  Appian  Way "  variety.  It  was  comparatively  good 
in  places,  and  ran  for  many  miles  along  the  valley  of  the 
Miami  River,  amidst  beautiful  scenery  of  ever-changing 
variety.  After  a  few  miles,  the  Ohio-Indiana  boundary 
was  crossed,  and  here,  as  many  times  afterwards,  I  was 
struck  by  the  apparently  sudden  change  of  landscape, 
the  same  as  the  home  tourist  can  almost  always 
discern  by  the  "  feel "  of  the  country  whether  he  is  in 
England  or  Wales,  no  matter  if  he  be  without  his  map 
for  reference.  I  do  not  mean  that  either  Ohio  or  Indiana 
is  particularly  mountainous.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
latter  is  on  the  whole  somewhat  flat,  as  if  in  preparation 
for  the  weary  stretches  of  monotonous  prairie  that  are 
to  be  encountered  the  more  one  travels  westward  until 
the  Rockies  are  reached. 

I  made  little  headway  that  afternoon,  and  at  10.30 
in  the  evening  I  was  still  some  distance  from  Indiana- 
polis, the  capital  of  the  State.  I  therefore  looked  around 
as  best  I  could  in  the  pitch-darkness,  with  only  my  lights 
as  a  guide,  for  a  likely  spot  for  my  night's  abode.  Water 
is  a  sine  qua  non  for  the  camping  vagrant,  and  when  I 
came  to  a  large  steel  bridge  I  decided  that  that  was  the 
place  for  me.  It  evidently  spanned  a  pretty  big  river, 
but  it  was  so  far  below,  or  seemed  so  far,  I  could  not 
see  the  water.  A  lengthy  reconnoitre  from  the  road 
led  me  to  the  edge  of  a  field  of  corn  whence  I  could  hear 
the  river  but  could  not  see  it  for  dense  masses  of 
vegetation. 

I  propped  Lizzie  up  on  her  stand  and  found  to  my 
dismay  that  when  the  engine  stopped  the  lights  went 

F 


66        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

out.  Not  feeling  in  the  mood  for  investigating  the 
cause  of  the  trouble,  I  was  satisfied  to  keep  the  engine 
running  slowly  as  long  as  illumination  was  necessary 
in  unstrapping  my  baggage  and  "  making "  my  bed. 
Then  I  set  out  to  find  the  river  and  enjoy  the  luxury  of 
a  wash. 

Easier  said  than  done !  I  could  find  openings  in  the 
thick  undergrowth  where  I  deemed  the  river  should  be, 
but  could  find  no  way  of  making  closer  acquaintance 
with  its  waters.  As  I  continued  my  search,  the  bank 
suddenly  gave  way  beneath  me,  and  I  was  plunged  up 
to  the  waist  in  the  river  I  had  been  so  diligently  seeking ! 

My  exit  was  more  difficult  to  negotiate  than  my 
entrance.  The  bushes  and  weeds  on  the  banks  were  not 
strong  enough  to  enable  me  to  pull  myself  out,  but  came 
away,  roots  and  all,  and  left  me  sinking  in  the  muddy 
river-bed.  I  eventually  extricated  myself,  however, 
and  decided  to  retire  unwashed  !  Pulling  off  my  soaking 
top-boots  was  a  herculean  task,  and  this  done,  I  hung 
my  wet  breeches  on  a  tree  to  dry  in  the  warm  summer 
night. 

I  passed  a  splendid  night  and  awoke  with  the  dawn, 
only  to  find  my  clothes  wetter  than  they  were  the  night 
before,  thanks  to  a  heavy  dew.  Such  conditions,  I 
reflected,  were  of  mere  trifling  importance  in  the  life 
of  a  bona  fide  tramp,  and  I  was  soon  humming  along  once 
more  through  the  fresh,  crisp  morning  air. 

We  arrived  in  Indianapolis  at  breakfast  time  and  with 
a  hearty  appetite.  I  remember  Indianapolis  chiefly 
as  a  city  with  long  wide  streets  full  of  cobble-stones, 
tram-lines,  and  traffic  policemen.  My  first  duty  was 
to  take  Lizzie  to  see  the  vet.  I  didn't  like  the  sound  of 
her  at  all,  and  she  seemed  but  a  rickety  shadow  of  her 


CINCINNATI  AND   ONWARDS  67 

former  self.  I  was  taking  no  chances  now.  As  if  by- 
instinct  we  went  "  right  there."  The  Henderson  agent 
took  Lizzie  under  his  protecting  wing,  and  while  I  settled 
down  to  consume  a  hefty  breakfast  of  cantaloupe,  puffed 
rice,  and  coffee,  he  took  her  for  a  spin  along  the  few  miles 
of  concrete  road  that  I  had  left  behind  with  such  regret. 

"  Waal,  I  guess  there  ain't  very  much  wrong  with  her, 
boy,"  was  the  verdict,  although  he  did  not  seem  over- 
exuberant  about  it. 

"  How  far  you  goin'  ?  "  he  added. 

"  Just  to  the  end  of  the  road,"  I  replied. 

41  Hm,  and  a  tidy  ride  too,  I'll  say  so.  I've  done 
it,  but  not  on  one  o'  them." 

Then,  after  meditation,  he  added,  "  But  I  think  she'll 
take  you  there.  Give  my  love  to  'Frisco,  won't  you, 
boy  ?  " 

I  promised,  paid  him  a  dollar,  and  left  to  track  down 
the  offices  of  the  local  branch  of  the  "  3  A."  Club,  or 
Automobile  Association  of  America,  whom,  I  was  in- 
formed, I  must  see  before  going  any  further,  to  inquire 
about  the  roads  ahead.  Dirt  roads,  it  will  be  under- 
stood, vary  with  the  weather.  Hardly  ever  does  the 
English  motorist  hear  of  a  road  being  washed  away  with 
the  rain,  but  the  idea  of  its  being  borne  away  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind  would  indeed  appear  strange  to  him ! 

I  found  the  "  3  A."  Club  located  at  one  of  the  large 
hotels,  all  alive  with  "  bell-boys  "  and  commissionaires 
and  elevators.  I  was  greeted  by  the  hotel  staff  with 
haughty  aloofness.  "  Put  that  gink  outside,"  I  could 
imagine  the  desk  clerk  saying  to  the  hall-porter.  But 
I  was  being  whisked  up  the  elevator  to  the  umpteenth 
floor  before  he  had  the  chance. 

At  the  "  3  A."  Club  office  I  was  greeted  most  cordially. 


68        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

The  gentleman  at  the  desk  was  a  human  encyclopaedia 
of  roads  and  places.  Beneath  the  dirt  and  dust  he 
believed  he  perceived  some  person  of  high  rank,  a 
brigadier  or  something,  and  my  brown  tunic  and  field- 
boots  must  have  borne  out  this  assumption.  However, 
that  may  be,  he  certainly  did  his  best  to  give  me  every 
assistance.  But  when  I  told  him  I  was  motor-cycling 
to  the  Pacific  and  wanted  to  know  which  was  the  best 
road  to  take,  his  jaw  dropped  suddenly.  There  were 
two  alternative  routes  to  Kansas  City,  the  "  Pike's 
Peak "  through  Springfield  and  the  "  National  Old 
Trails  Highway "  through  St.  Louis.  Which  should 
I  take  ? 

"  Well,  sir,  the  National  Old  Trail  is  impossible  just 
now.  The  rains  have  been  very  heavy  and  there  are 
several  places  where  you  couldn't  possibly  get  through. 
And  as  for  the  other — well,  I  shall  have  to  think." 

Which  he  did.  He  hummed  and  ha'd  and  stroked  his 
chin  and  hummed  and  ha'd  again,  as  if  struggling  with 
some  momentous  problem.  He  spread  out  maps  in  rows 
before  him  and  followed  the  route  with  his  finger.  Then 
silence. 

After  a  minute  or  two  of  this,  in  which  the  merits  of 
"  washouts  "  and  hold-ups  and  detours  by  the  score  were 
being  weighed  together  in  his  troubled  brain,  he  spoke  : 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  think  you  can  get  through  " — and,  more 
deliberately — "  I  think  you  can  get  through.  Yes,  it's 
a  good  road,"  he  added. 

I  learnt  then  for  the  first  time  one  outstanding 
principle  in  the  road-study  of  America.  I  confirmed 
it  on  innumerable  occasions  later.  There  are  two 
classes  of  roads  and  two  only.  They  are  good  roads 
and  bad    roads.    Any  road,   anywhere,  in  the  whole 


CINCINNATI  AND   ONWARDS  69 

of  the  United  States  of  America  (and,  I  presume,  her 
Colonies  as  well)  is  a  "  good  "  road  if  you  can  "  get 
through."     The  remainder  are  bad. 

I  thanked  my  benefactor  and  accepted  sheaves  of  maps 
and  guide-books  for  which  he  would  take  no  payment. 
He  was  indeed  the  quintessence  of  obligation.  I  on  my 
part  was  the  quintessence  of  gratitude. 

"  Now  for  the  fun,"  I  chuckled  as  I  kicked  Lizzie  to  a 
roar  and  set  out  for  the  highway  with  red-  and  white- 
circled  telegraph  poles. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
INDIANA  AND  ILLINOIS 

The  first  bit  of  fun  was  not  far  ahead.  In  places  the 
road  was  passable  if  one  ignored  the  six-inch  layer  of 
loose  sand  and  soil  that  covered  it.  The  country  was 
flat  and  uninteresting.  Diversion  was  occasionally  en- 
countered in  the  form  of  side-slips  and  here  and  there 
an  unexpected  spill.  The  quicker  I  went  the  easier 
I  got  through,  as  the  soil  did  not  cling  to  the  wheels 
so  much  and  hinder  steering.  At  thirty  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  maintain  balance.  At  thirty-five  it  was 
tolerable,  and  at  forty  it  was  comparatively  simple. 

Now  and  then  I  would  pass  a  kind  of  harrow  the  width 
of  over  half  the  road  and  drawn  along  by  a  team  of 
horses.  The  function  of  this  was  to  break  up  the  big 
lumps  of  solid  mud  formed  by  the  recent  rains.  After 
this  would  follow  a  similar  team  of  horses  dragging  a 
"  grader  " — a  kind  of  snow-plough  arrangement  which 
scraped  the  surface  flat  and  shovelled  the  surplus  sand 
and  mud-lumps  into  the  side.  In  these  districts  the 
farmers  are  held  by  law  individually  responsible  for  the 
condition  of  the  roads  their  farms  adjoin,  and  the  process 
of  grading  is  expected  to  be  carried  out  within  three  or 
four  days  after  the  rain.  When  the  farmers  are  busy 
with  their  crops  this  doesn't  get  done,  and  when  they 
aren't,  it  sometimes  does,  according,  I  think,  to  whether 
the  farmer  is  a  sheriff  or  a  justice  of  the  peace  and  has 


INDIANA  AND  ILLINOIS  71 

to  set  an  example  to  others.  Fortunately  all  farmers 
are  motorists  as  well ;  they  have  to  be  able  to  get 
about,  so  when  they  wish  to  travel,  they  grade  the  roads 
for  their  own  use  if  for  no  more  altruistic  object. 

Once  I  was  passing  one  of  these  road-ploughs  drawn 
by  a  team  of  three  horses  abreast,  which  took  up  most 
of  the  road  and  showed  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
drawing  in  to  the  side.  In  endeavouring  to  pass  it, 
I  struck  at  too  small  an  angle  the  huge  ridge  of  solid 
mud-lumps  that  it  had  formed.  I  was  going  fast,  of 
course.  The  handlebar  was  wrenched  out  of  my  hands 
and  I  was  thrown  with  great  force  over  it  and  on  to  the 
bank  at  the  side.  Lizzie  herself  lay  roaring  on  her  side 
in  the  dirt.  The  horses  took  fright  and  galloped  off. 
The  only  damage  done  showed  itself  in  some  nasty  cuts 
and  scratches,  some  small  areas  of  skin  missing  from 
different  places,  and  a  few  bent  levers  and  controls. 
From  past  experience  I  had  learnt  that  in  all  such  cases 
the  clips  and  brackets  and  sharp  corners  of  Lizzie's 
profile  always  seemed  to  be  in  the  path  of  my  flight 
over  her  handlebars. 

A  handkerchief  bound  tightly  round  the  cuts,  a  few 
adjustments  made,  and  on  we  go  with  smiling  faces,  only 
to  overtake  the  wretched  thing  again  ! 

After  twenty  or  thirty  miles  of  this,  we  came  to  mud 
in  earnest — mud  measured  not  by  the  inch  in  depth, 
but  by  the  yard.  Never  was  it  soft  and  squishy  and 
respectable,  but  always  baked  rock-hard  into  ugly 
contorted  shapes  that  simply  defied  progress  on  two 
wheels  alone.  The  diabolical  effect  had  been  heightened 
by  the  passing  of  numerous  cars  through  the  roads  when  the 
surface  was  still  plastic,  and  great  ruts  and  cracks  and 
ridges  were  thrown  up  at  every  point  between  the  road- 


72        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

boundaries,  each  one  representing  an  eternal  struggle 
to  "  get  through."  When  the  fierce  sun  came  out  and 
poured  down  for  days  unceasing  upon  such  ugliness 
as  this,  the  hideous  surface  was  as  if  petrified  by  its 
glare,  and  the  efforts  of  a  "  grader  "  would  be  futile  to 
alter  in  the  slightest  degree  its  abominable  condition. 

Riding  was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  haulage  work 
that  had  to  be  done,  and  many  times  when  I  got  into  a 
huge  solidified  "  crevasse,"  I  had  to  leave  the  machine 
standing  in  it  on  the  tubes  of  its  cradle-frame  and  proceed 
ahead  to  chip  the  edges  down  until  the  wheels  would 
reach  to  the  bottom  again. 

Anyone  who  has  stood  on  the  "  Glacier  des  Bossons," 
looked  upwards  towards  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  and 
seen  the  contorted,  fantastic  shapes  that  the  ice  assumes 
as  it  swells  over  the  ridges  in  its  path,  can  perhaps  imagine 
the  same  effect  on  a  smaller  scale  applied  to  the  dirt 
roads  of  Indiana. 

Fortunately  there  were  stretches  of  road,  generally 
when  there  was  a  slight  gradient,  where  the  surface  was 
well-drained,  hard,  and  flat,  and  going  was  good.  But 
invariably  at  the  foot  of  every  slope,  or  at  the  dip  be- 
tween two  hills,  there  was  a  stretch  of  excruciating 
"  agony "  that  would  reduce  the  most  defiant  motor- 
cyclist to  submission. 

Thus  it  was  for  eighty  or  ninety  miles.  The  truth 
began  to  dawn  on  me  that  a  fellow  has  to  be  a  u  tough 
guy  "  to  motor  in  these  parts.  Sometimes  I  would  stop 
and  rest  awhile  to  let  an  occasional  car  get  by.  It  was 
funny  to  see  how  they  all  went !  The  big  heavy  touring 
car  would  roll  along  as  if  to  devour  all  that  came  its 
way.  It  would  meet  a  nasty  patch  and  with  broken 
dignity  would  heave  and  sigh  from  side  to  side  as  it 


INDIANA  AND   ILLINOIS  73 

slowly  crawled  on  bottom  gear  over  the  ridges  and 
furrows ;  and  then  it  would  rear  proudly  into  the  air 
as  it  surmounted  some  huge  lump  of  solid  mud  and 
suddenly  flop  down  with  a  dull  thud  on  the  bottom  of 
the  springs  as  it  plunged  into  the  hollow  beyond.  One 
could  hear  every  joint  groan  under  the  strain  and  could 
sometimes  see  the  bottom  of  the  engine  scrape  ridges 
in  the  chunks  of  earth  and  watch  the  little  bits  knocked 
off  an  unfriendly  obstruction  as  the  back  axle  dragged 
its  weary  way  along. 

And  then  perchance  would  come  some  cheeky  Ford, 
the  essence  of  impudence  as  opposed  to  the  dignity  of 
its  wealthier  brethren.  With  a  hop,  skip,  and  a  jump, 
it  would  scramble  over  the  furrows,  swinging  gaily  from 
side  to  side,  wagging  its  tail  in  the  air  and  rattling  in 
every  sinew  as  only  a  Ford  knows  how !  But  the 
"  Flivvers  "  got  through  easier  than  any. 

The  worst  patch  I  struck  was  near  the  small  town  of 
Hume.  I  have  never  seen  in  the  space  of  200  yards  a 
more  apt  imitation  of  a  volcanic  lava-bed.  The  thick 
mud  of  two  days  before  had  been  churned  up  into  the 
most  fantastic  shapes  that  ever  a  main  highway  has 
taken.  Every  square  inch  of  the  ninety-foot- wide  road 
bore  signs  of  the  passage  of  some  vehicle  or  other.  Some 
of  the  ruts  were  so  deep  that  the  machine  rested  on  the 
engine  and  the  frame  and  not  on  the  wheels  at  all. 
Pushing  it  anywhere  but  in  one  of  the  best  ruts  was 
impossible.  When  the  rut  got  too  deep,  I  had  to  lift 
up  the  back  of  the  machine  bodily  and  wheel  it  foot 
by  foot,  while  the  rut  took  the  front  wheel  whither  it 
listed.  Here  and  there  were  signs  where  car-drivers, 
in  similar  predicaments,  but  a  day  or  two  before,  when 
the  mud  was  not  yet  baked  quite  hard,  had  shovelled 


74        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

away  large  quantities  of  the  road  to  allow  the  engine 
and  chassis  to  clear.  Half-way  through  was  a  large 
hole,  deep  and  broad  enough  to  allow  a  small  car  to  be 
hidden  therein  from  view.  In  this  hole  the  mud  was 
still  soft  and  plastic.  A  good  Samaritan  of  the  road 
had  procured  a  piece  of  old  corrugated  iron  from  some- 
where and  propped  it  against  two  poles  to  warn  any 
others  who  might  follow  of  its  presence. 

Lifting  four-cwt.  Lizzie  across  this  whole  stretch  took 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  all  told,  and  at  the  end  I  was 
faint  with  exhaustion.  The  sun  was  never  hotter  and 
I  never  perspired  more,  not  even  in  the  middle  of  the 
Mohave  Desert  in  California,  where  the  thermometer  rises 
up  to  140  degrees  or  more !  I  begged  a  glass  of  milk 
from  a  farmhouse  a  mile  farther  on,  and  thanked  God 
that  He  made  cows  and  that  I  was  still  alive  to  appreciate 
them  ! 

And  thus  we  toiled  and  thus  we  spun  for  many  miles 
until  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  I  came  to  parts  where 
the  sun  had  not  yet  had  time  to  do  its  work.  Every 
inch  of  the  road  was  thick,  black,  slimy  mud ;  mud  that 
stinks  with  a  smell  peculiar  to  itself  alone  ;  mud  that  clings 
to  the  tyres  and  wedges  in  the  forks  and  fouls  the  chains 
and  blocks  the  wheels ;  mud  indeed  that  sticketh  closer 
than  a  brother.  I  stopped  at  a  ramshackle  little  village 
of  a  few  dozen  shops  and  houses,  all  made  of  wood,  and 
boasting  the  name  of  "  Murdock,"  to  partake  of  afternoon 
tea.  Outside  an  old  rickety  "  store  "  (this  term  includes 
any  conceivable  kind  of  retail  shop  in  America),  I  saw 
a  notice :  "  Henry  T.  Hodges,  Justice  of  the  Peace  ; 
Dry  Goods  Store  ;  General  Merchandise  ;  Post 
Office  ;   Real   Estate  ;   Refreshments." 

Henry  T.  Hodges  beamed  on  me  benignly  from  behind 


An  awkward  stretch  of  road  in  Indiana. 


The  Midnight  Couch. 


INDIANA  AND   ILLINOIS  75 

a  pile  of  preserved  fruit  tins  as  I  entered  his  gloomy 
establishment. 

"  See  here,  dad,  I  want  a  good  meal,"  I  said ;  "  money's 
no  object.     Get  me?" 

"  Sure ;    an'  have  ye  come  far,  brother  ?  " 

"  I  should  reckon  about  a  thousand  miles  to-day. 
Dandy  roads  you've  got  in  these  parts,  dad." 

"  Aye,  but  you'd  'a  seen  'em  when  we  'ad  the  rains, 
brother ;  they  wuz  so  mighty  slick  the  hottymobiles 
sunk  right  down  in  'em  and  'ad  to  be  dug  out  wi'  a  shovel 
and  dragged  along  wi'  a  team  of  four  'osses." 

44  Why,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  there  were  four 
horses  in  Murdock,"  I  replied. 

44  Aye,  an'  I  know  there  is,  brother,  'cause  they're 
my  'osses." 

44  Um !  Guess  you  make  a  pretty  good  living  out 
of  them,  don't  you,  dad  ?  " 

44  You've  said  it,  brother.  Ten  dollars  a  time  is  my 
charge,  and  if  a  chap  don't  pay  I  jest  leave  'im  there  till 
'e  does !  " 

44  Well,  what  about  this  meal,  dad  ?  I'm  mighty 
hungry — and,  say,  who's  the  road  commissioner  about 
here  ?  " 

He  essayed  no  answer,  but  disappeared  hurriedly  to 
boil  the  tea.  I  had  no  doubt  now  who  the  road  com- 
missioner was ! 

After  leaving  the  44  Store  "  of  Henry  T.  Hodges,  J.P., 
I  did  another  twenty  miles  or  so  until  dark,  and  sought 
out  a  comfortable  secluded  spot  near  the  road,  but  far 
enough  from  it  to  avoid  the  smell  of  it,  and  settled  down 
for  the  night.  Mosquitoes  were  the  only  source  of  worry 
now.  Otherwise  this  roadside  sleeping  was  getting 
quite  a  commonplace  event. 


76        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

Up  at  dawn  in  the  morning  !  On  the  road  once  again  ; 
labouring,  pushing,  hauling,  heaving,  lifting,  cleaning 
off  the  mud,  speeding  a  mile  or  two  and  then  more 
labouring  and  more  pushing. 

At  breakfast-time  I  reached  Decatur,  a  flourishing 
town  of  20,000  or  so  inhabitants,  and  had  breakfast  at 
a  "  get-fed-quick  "  eat-house  where  you  sit  on  a  stool 
in  front  of  the  counter  and  the  man  at  the  range  behind 
fries  you  a  mutton  steak,  bakes  the  "  waffles,"  or  poaches 
the  eggs  as  per  your  desire. 

Then  on  again  towards  Springfield,  the  capital  of 
Illinois  State.  The  mud  changes  to  sand  and  the  sand 
to  dust.  More  spills,  more  cuts,  more  bruises.  The 
country  as  flat  and  uninteresting  as  they  make  it.  More 
right-angle  bends,  more  losing  of  the  way  and  more 
frizzling  in  the  sun.  Two  villages  are  passed  in  forty 
miles.     One  has  a  population  of  417  and  the  other  59. 

At  11  a.m.  we  draw  into  Springfield,  hot,  tired,  dusty, 
and  sore.  Springfield  is  a  mass  of  roads,  trams, 
telegraph  poles,  and  people.  I  leave  Lizzie  leaning 
against  the  kerb  and  go  for  an  ice-cream  soda ;  when 
I  return,  Lizzie  is  no  longer  visible.  Instead  there  is 
a  large  crowd.  They  are  all  examining  something.  Those 
on  the  outside  elbow  their  way  to  the  middle.  Those 
in  the  middle  try  to  keep  them  out.  The  passers-by 
wonder  what  it's  all  about  and  stop  to  see.  They  in 
turn  try  to  make  their  way  to  the  middle.  Many  are 
disappointed  and  pass  on.  The  traffic  cop,  seeing  the 
crowd,  strolls  over  to  see  what's  wrong. 

When  he  had  moved  the  crowd  away,  I  got  astride 
Lizzie's  saddle  and  rode  away,  amid  murmurs  of 
astonishment. 

"  Come  quite  a  ways,  I  reckon." 


INDIANA  AND  ILLINOIS  77 

"  That's  the  kind  of  bird  to  go  travelling  on." 

"  Looks  as  though  he's  seen  some  mud  somewhere." 

"  Look,  Bill,  he's  got  'igh  boots  on  like  they  have  in 
the  movies  !  " 

"  Ah,  that's  what  'e  is,  'e's  a  dolgarn  movie  actor," 
etc.,  etc. 

All  the  trails  in  America  seem  to  go  through  Spring- 
field, 111.  Consequently  the  telegraph  poles  and  tram 
poles  were  a  mass  of  hieroglyphics.  It  took  a  few  minutes 
to  get  into  Springfield.  But  it  took  the  best  part  of  two 
hours  to  get  out  of  it  satisfactorily.  Once  I  thought 
I  was  well  away,  but  found  that  for  ten  miles  I  had 
followed  a  trail  that  had  white  stripes  on  a  red  background 
instead  of  red  stripes  on  a  white  background,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind. 

Jacksonville  was  the  next  town,  some  forty  miles  away. 
There  are  six  smaller  towns  on  the  way.  I  don't  remem- 
ber passing  six,  but  my  map  vouches  for  this  number. 
Their  respective  populations,  taken  from  the  said  map, 
are  as  follows  : — Riddle  Hill,  25 ;  Berlin,  251 ;  New 
Berlin,  690  ;  Alexander,  200  ;  Orleans,  38 ;  and  Arnold, 
15.  So  America  is  not  full  up  yet.  But  fancy  showing 
a  village  of  fifteen  inhabitants  on  the  map  !  If  it  were 
in  Arizona  instead  of  Illinois  they  would  have  called 
it  Arnold  "  City."  Here  are  some  more  names,  taken 
at  random  from  the  map,  to  show  the  endless  variety 
that  the  American  cartographer  has  drawn  upon : — 
"Daisy,"  "Whitehall,"  "Quiver,"  "Cuba,"  "Golden," 
"Siloam,"  "Time,"  "Pearl,"  "  Summum,"  "Birming- 
ham "  (population  76),  "  Illinois  City "  (population 
80),  "Bible  Grove"  (population  10),  "Enterprise'-' 
(population  7). 

After  Jacksonville  the  road  seemed  to  change  its  mind. 


78        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

It  refused  to  be  a  road  any  longer.  It  turned  instead 
into  a  sea-beach  and  dodged  in  and  out,  here  and  there, 
to  evade  the  approaching  traveller.  Everywhere  was 
to  be  seen  white  sand.  It  lay  feet  deep  on  the  trail, 
making  progress  almost  impossible.  It  covered  all  the 
vegetation  at  the  roadside,  and  it  filled  the  air  as  well. 
Here  for  the  first  time  I  encountered  the  type  of  road 
that  can  disappear  with  the  vagaries  of  the  wind.  It 
was  easy  to  imagine  that  in  seons  of  time  this  self-same 
road  would  help  to  form  some  great  geological  strata 
deposited  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  or  elsewhere.  The 
country  became  hilly  and  thickly  wooded,  and  some- 
times the  trail  would  narrow  down  to  just  a  few  feet 
in  width  and  then  just  as  quickly  open  out  to  fifty  or 
sixty.  The  trees  grew  thicker,  the  sand  grew  thinner, 
the  trail  dodged  around  boulders  and  trees,  shot  up  little 
sandy  slopes,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  without  any 
warning  whatever,  stopped  at  the  bank  of  a  great  wide 
silent  river. 

It  was  the  Illinois  River,  a  tributary  of  the  great 
Mississippi,  which  itself  was  only  fifty  miles  away. 
About  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  wide,  it  was  navigated 
by  a  ferry-boat  of  unknown  antiquity  pulled  across 
the  river  by  a  cable  wound  round  a  drum.  Every  man, 
woman,  and  child,  and  every  vehicle  that  crosses  America 
by  the  Pike's  Peak  Highway,  swells  the  funds  of  the 
man  who  owns  that  ferry-boat. 

"  Which  is  the  road  now  ?  "  I  asked  him  when  we 
eventually  reached  the  other  side.  I  could  see  no  signs 
of  any  continuation  of  the  trail.  He  had  better  eyes 
than  I,  however. 

"  Go  straight  ahead ;   you  can't  miss  it." 

There    was    certainly    visible    a   little    pathway   that 


INDIANA  AND   ILLINOIS  79 

scrambled  up  the  bank  and  then  wound  in  and  out  among 
the  trees,  and  as  I  could  see  nothing  else,  I  followed 
it.  Sure  enough  it  led  to  "  Valley  City "  (population 
52),  and  thence  onwards,  through  "  New  Salem " 
and  "  Barry  "  towards  "  Hannibal  "  on  the  Mississippi 
River. 

The  Mississippi !  Long  had  I  conjured  up  visions  of 
this  mighty  river  of  over  4,000  miles  total  length  that 
cuts  through  the  United  States  from  north  to  south, 
and  drains  nearly  1|  million  square  miles  of  land  !  I 
had  imagined  its  vast  breadth  and  followed  in  my  fancy 
the  great,  silent,  moving  river  as  it  flowed  from  west  to 
east  and  north  to  south  through  ever-changing  scenery 
and  ever-widening  banks.  And  here  I  was  within  a  few 
miles  of  it !     The  thought  was  almost  absurd. 

Just  when  the  sun  was  about  to  set  the  road 
made  one  more  swerve  to  the  left.  The  trees  and 
the  surrounding  country  fell  away  as  if  by  magic,  and 
there  was  nothing  beyond,  save  a  massive  bridge  of 
steel.  Beneath  and  from  horizon  to  horizon  flowed  the 
majestic  river. 

The  other  end  of  the  bridge  was  probably  some  3,000 
feet  away  in  the  town  of  Hannibal  and  the  State 
of  Missouri.  Hannibal  bristles  with  statues,  tablets, 
posters,  placards,  and  picture-postcards.  They  all  have 
the  same  theme  for  a  subject — "  Mark  Twain."  The 
Hanniballians,  if  such  they  are  called,  are  just  as  bad. 
I  believe  it  is  not  possible  for  a  stranger  to  be  in  Hannibal 
for  five  minutes  without  being  told  that  Mark  Twain 
was  born  there.  If  the  "  clerk "  at  the  refreshment 
bar  doesn't  tell  you,  the  man  at  the  post  office  does. 
If  the  young  "  fellar  "  who  pumps  a  couple  of  gallons 
of  "  gas  "  into  your  tank  forgets  to  tell  you,  the  old  girl 


80        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

at  the  fruit-shop  doesn't.  They  must  have  a  secret 
code  in  Hannibal  whereby  they  arrange  these  things. 
And  I  will  guarantee  there  aren't  two  out  of  every  dozen 
picture-postcards  on  sale  in  Hannibal  that  don't  show 
Mark  Twain's  birthplace  or  his  cave  or  his  statue  or  his 
ass  or  his  ox  or  something  that  he  either  did  or  did  not 
"  immortalize." 

Seeking  a  quiet  little  spot  by  the  river  where  I  could 
spend  the  night  and  fulfil  one  of  my  long-cherished  hopes 
— to  bathe  in  the  River  Mississippi,  I  turned  down  a 
little  road  that  ran  along  the  bank  and  reconnoitred 
the  country.  To  my  dismay  a  railway  ran  between  the 
road  and  the  river,  almost  at  the  very  water's  edge. 
Nothing  daunted,  and  hoping  that  it  would  sooner  or 
later  swerve  away  and  leave  me  in  peace  with  my  river, 
I  continued  for  miles,  long  after  it  was  dark,  but  with 
no  success.  The  road  itself  was  on  a  ledge  high  above 
the  railway,  and  the  railway  was  on  a  ledge  built  some 
six  or  eight  feet  above  the  river.  Eventually  I  left 
Lizzie  at  the  roadside,  camouflaged  her  with  leaves 
and  branches,  and  scrambled  down  with  my  bags  over 
the  ledge  on  to  the  bank  below.  I  found  a  comfortable 
little  spot  about  ten  feet  from  the  rails  and  laid  my  bed. 
And  oh,  what  a  glorious  bathe  I  had  in  the  river  ! 

It  was  the  eve  of  July  4th,  the  American  "  Day  of 
Independence."  Sounds  of  revellers  from  far  away 
were  wafted  over  the  calm,  silent  waters.  Now  and 
then  would  be  heard  the  faint  swish  of  a  canoe  as  it 
glided  past  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  soft  music 
crept  up  the  river  from  time  to  time,  now  clear,  now 
faint,  as  if  from  its  dark  and  mystic  depths. 

I  tucked  myself  under  the  blanket  feeling  like  a  good 
Christian  that  night,  with  never  a  worry  in  the  world 


INDIANA  AND   ILLINOIS  81 

— a    world    that   was    good    and    kind  and  comfortable 
always. 

Nevertheless  I  should  have  liked  to  know  when  a  train 
would  be  coming  past  to  disturb  my  slumbers. 

Just  as  I  was  dozing  over,  I  heard  footsteps  along  the 
rails.  They  came  closer  and  closer,  but  I  could  see 
nothing.  The  night  was  pitch-dark.  As  the  footsteps 
came  opposite  to  me,  I  made  out  the  form  of  a  man 
against  the  starlit  sky.     He  did  not  see  me. 

"  Say,  bo,  can  you  tell  me  how  many  trains  pass  here 
to-night  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  jumped  as  if  struck  in  the  back. 

"  Only  a  couple,  brother,"  he  replied  to  where  the  air 
had  spoken,  "  one  of  them  in  about  half  an  hour  and  the 
other  about  one  in  the  morning ; — but  they  won't  worry 
you,"  he  added. 

Sure  enough  in  half  an  hour's  time  I  heard  the  distant 
rumble  of  a  train.  I  began  to  wonder  if  I  had  not  rolled 
any  closer  to  the  rails  than  when  I  lay  down.  The 
earth  shook  and  a  red  glare  appeared  in  the  distance, 
and  with  a  mighty  roar  the  huge  train  came  thundering 
through  an  opening  in  the  trees.  Although  I  knew 
I  was  at  a  safe  distance,  the  feeling  of  impending 
annihilation  swooped  suddenly  down  upon  me.  "  Don't 
be  an  ass,"  said  I,  "what's  the  use  of  getting  the  wind 
up  ?  "  And  the  next  second  it  seemed  that  the  rushing 
torrent  of  steel  and  fire  was  but  an  inch  from  my  head. 
Clatter  bang-thump,  clatter-bang-thump,  for  twenty  long 
seconds,  and  the  intruder  was  gone.  In  another  minute 
not  a  sound  broke  the  silence  of  the  midsummer  night. 

Thinking  what  an  excellent  test  of  self-control  it  would 
be  to  pitch  my  bed  between  the  rails,  but  disinclined 
to  do  so  on  account  of  the  possibility  of  a  cow-catcher 

G 


82        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

being  in  front  of  the  trains,  I  rolled  over  into  heavy 
slumber. 

In  half  an  hour  I  was  awake  again  and  the  same  process 
was  repeated.  I  deemed  then  that  I  should  be  left  in 
peace  for  the  night.  But  my  friend  had  not  reckoned 
on  the  freight  trains.  Only  the  passenger  trains  were 
of  account  to  him  ! 

Regularly  every  half-hour  they  thundered  past.  At 
dawn  I  had  counted  thirteen  in  all.  I  resolved  not 
to  sleep  on  a  railway  embankment  again,  even  though 
it  be  in  company  with  the  Mississippi. 


CHAPTER  IX 
STORMY  WEATHER  IN  MISSOURI 

Hannibal  is  a  nice,  clean,  respectable  place;  were  I 
an  American  tourist  I  would  call  it  a  "  cute  little  city." 

I  found  an  eating-house  with  a  tempting  smell  around 
it,  and  ordered  a  hearty  breakfast.  After  polishing  off 
this  meal,  I  mounted  Lizzie  and  started  off  once  more. 

We  were  now  in  Missouri,  the  State  of  the  small  farmer. 
Not  that  the  farms  are  so  very  small,  but  they  are  not 
on  so  large  a  scale  as  further  on  in  the  west,  where  the 
hundred-square-mile  ranch  is  the  order  of  the  day. 

Again  the  scenery  experiences  a  quick  change ;  the 
country  becomes  hilly  and  rough  ;  one  sees  maize  growing 
almost  everywhere  and  very  often  pigs  (or  hogs  as  they 
are  termed  in  the  States)  turned  out  to  pasture.  Never- 
theless there  is  much  uncleared  and  uncultivated  land 
to  be  seen ;  the  towns  and  villages  are  clean,  modern, 
and  well  laid  out,  and  all  give  an  air  of  prosperity  and 
plenty.  Every  farmer  has  his  car,  and  it  is  generally 
a  Ford  ;  youngsters  of  twelve  and  fourteen  can  be  seen 
driving  them,  and  generally  with  as  much  skill  as  their 
parents,  if  not  more. 

But  for  all  its  hills  and  vales  and  the  luxuriance  of 
its  natural  beauty,  Missouri  has  one  great  drawback. 
There  is  a  very  big  fly  in  the  Missouri  ointment — rain. 
And  when  it  rains  in  Missouri,  it  rains  properly,  not  in 
tantalizing  little  showers  as  it  does  in  England.    It  is 

83 


84        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

as  though  the  whole  sky  had  burst  its  water-mains.  It 
falls  not  in  inches  but  feet ;  not  for  hours  but  for  days. 
Then  suddenly  the  sun  breaks  out  and  scorches  every- 
thing with  renewed  vigour.  If  a  car  is  out  far  from 
home  when  the  rain  comes,  it  generally  has  to  "  stay 
put."  The  rain  sinks  into  the  road  and  so  does  the  car. 
Every  car  carries  a  set  of  chains  for  its  wheels,  but  al- 
though they  improve  matters  slightly,  they  are  often 
futile  in  ploughing  through  the  thick  slime.  Then  come 
the  teams  of  horses  at  five  and  ten  and  twenty  dollars 
a  time  to  drag  the  unfortunate  automobile  to  some 
garage  where  it  "  lays  up  "  until  the  rain  has  gone  and 
the  sun  has  dried  the  roads  sufficiently  for  further  progress. 

Sometimes  enterprising  individuals  do  not  wait  for 
rain  to  bring  in  the  shekels.  I  have  often  heard  of  per- 
fectly authentic  cases  of  a  farmer  deliberately  flooding 
likely  patches  of  the  road  and  then  waiting  patiently 
with  his  horses  to  drag  out  some  unfortunate  victim. 
This  seems  absurd,  but  care  is  always  taken  to  select 
a  spot  where  it  cannot  be  definitely  proved  that  natural 
conditions  are  not  entirely  responsible  for  the  result ! 

In  the  early  afternoon,  after  a  hard  ride  from  Han- 
nibal, punctuated  at  every  village  with  a  stop  for  the 
consumption  of  ice-cream,  I  reached  a  small  town  called 
"  Bucklin."  No  sooner  was  I  there  than  a  huge  black 
cloud  appeared  suddenly  in  the  sky  and  a  terrific  wind- 
storm rose  which  blew  everything  that  was  not  fixed  to 
something  in  all  directions .  For  half  an  hour  it  raged .  The 
air  was  thick  with  dust,  leaves  and  bits  of  paper.  Then, 
as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  wind  subsided,  and  rain 
commenced  in  torrents.  So  fast  did  it  fall  and  so  heavy 
were  the  drops  that  the  surface  of  the  road  was  beaten 
into  a  froth  which  hovered  all  the  time  a  few  inches  above 


STORMY  WEATHER  IN  MISSOURI  85 

the  road  itself.  Even  to  walk  across  it  was  a  test  of 
skill ;  so  slimy  was  the  mud  that  one's  feet  slid  aimlessly 
about  in  any  direction  but  the  one  desired.  For  this 
reason  concrete  pathways  are  invariably  provided  so  that 
pedestrians  can  move  with  comparative  ease  and  can 
leave  their  homes  and  visit  anyone  anywhere  in  the 
town  without  actually  touching  the  mud  at  all.  These 
concrete  pathways  naturally  have  to  cross  the  road  in 
places,  and  when  the  road  surrounding  them  is  washed 
away,  as  very  often  happens,  the  result  to  a  passing 
vehicle  can  be  imagined. 

Further  progress  being  out  of  the  question  that  day,  I 
hied  me  to  the  only  hotel  in  the  place  and  prepared  to 
while  away  the  days  that  were  to  follow  in  writing 
letters,  studying  an  obsolete  almanac,  and  eating  bad  food. 

It  rained  in  a  continual  deluge  all  that  day,  all  night 
and  all  next  morning.  At  midday  it  stopped  with  a 
bump,  the  sun  came  out  with  another,  and  the  birds 
began  to  sing  again.  At  three  I  ventured  forth  with 
Lizzie.  I  had  not  gone  a  dozen  yards  when  the  back 
wheel  slipped  sideways  round  to  the  front  and  left  me 
reposing  in  the  half-baked  mud.  Back  again  for  another 
hour's  wait  while  the  broiling  sun  did  its  work.  Next 
time  I  got  as  far  as  the  outskirts  of  the  town  before  I 
decided  to  turn  back.  After  another  hour  we  started 
out  to  do  or  die,  come  what  might.  During  the  remainder 
of  the  day  until  dark  we  covered  ten  miles,  going  hard 
all  the  time.  When  I  was  not  extricating  myself  from 
a  spicy  bit  of  quagmire,  I  was  poking  semi-hard  mud  out 
of  the  wheels  and  mudguards. 

On  one  occasion  I  came  to  a  sudden  dip  in  the  road, 
followed  by  an  equally  sudden  rise.  As  usual  there  was 
an   uninviting    "  slough    of  despond "    in   the   hollow. 


86        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

After  trying  two  or  three  different  ruts  In  an  effort  to 
"  get  through,"  giving  up  each  one  in  turn  as  hopeless, 
and  pushing  back  again  to  where  still  another  rut 
branched  off  from  the  one  I  was  in,  I  eventually  worked 
my  way  through.  The  struggle  up  the  slope  on  the 
other  side  was  a  formidable  one  and  was  being  slowly 
accomplished  by  a  combination  of  bottom-gear  driving, 
pushing,  lifting,  and  "  paddling."  Just  before  the 
summit  was  reached  I  was  thrown  by  a  steep  furrow 
into  the  ditch  at  the  roadside,  breathless,  exhausted,  and 
extremely  bad-tempered. 

As  I  was  extracting  myself,  a  young  man  in  shirt- 
sleeves strolled  leisurely  over,  hands  in  pockets,  from  a 
stationary  car  a  little  further  on.  When  I  had  safely 
extricated  my  right  leg  from  under  the  machine  and 
hauled  Lizzie  on  to  her  wheels  again,  the  stranger  spoke. 

"  Say,  fella,  does  that  front  cylinder  get  hot  ?  I've 
heard  say  that's  the  weak  point  about  them  four-cylinder 
motorsickles." 

Here  follows  a  flow  of  language  from  self  entirely 
unprintable.  The  stranger  opens  his  eyes,  whistles 
softly,  then  adds,  as  if  to  turn  the  subject : 

"  Where  you  from  ?  * 

He  remained  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  staring  at  my 
diminishing  form.  He  was  still  there  when  I  looked  over  my 
shoulder  half  a  mile  further  on.    He  is  probably  there  now ! 

As  time  went  on,  black  clouds  appeared  in  the  sky ; 
the  sun  went  in  ;  the  wind  rose,  and  a  repetition  of  the 
events  of  the  day  before  commenced  just  as  I  arrived 
in  the  small  town  of  "  Wheeling."  The  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  eat  ices  until  the  climatic  conditions 
adjusted  themselves.  This  took  the  best  part  of  two 
hours.    Once   again   I   sallied   forth   with   Lizzie.    This 


STORMY  WEATHER  IN  MISSOURI  87 

time  in  the  short  space  of  five  yards  I  reposed  gently 
but  thoroughly  in  the  Missouri  mud,  much  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  population,  who  had  all  turned  out  to 
witness  my  departure.  Again  I  tried  and  again  I  fell. 
The  whole  machine  seemed  to  act  as  though  it  were 
made  of  jelly.     I  gave  it  up  on  the  third  attempt. 

"  Try  the  railway,"  jeered  the  village  comedian, 
pointing  to  a  level-crossing  in  the  distance.  This  amused 
the  onlookers  "  considerable."  For  myself,  I  discerned 
a  glimmer  of  wisdom  in  the  suggestion. 

"  Look  here,  you  guys,"  I  retorted,  "  what  about 
giving  me  a  hand  to  push  this  as  far  as  the  depot "  (I 
never  made  the  fatal  mistake  of  referring  to  it  as  a 
"  station  ")  "instead  of  looking  on  and  grinning  like  a  lot 
of  schoolboys  ?  " 

It  had  its  effect.  Three  or  four  volunteered  at  once. 
We  all  pushed ;  we  slithered  to  right  and  left ;  we 
slipped  over  each  other  and  ourselves.    But  we  got  there. 

Riding  on  the  sleepers  was  hardly  humorous,  but  it 
was  better  than  the  road.  They  were  not  filled  in  and 
were  very  irregular.  Consequently  progress  was  slow 
and  a  trifle  disjointed.  The  "  depot  "  was  not  far  away. 
The  "  line-boss  "  looked  at  me  curiously,  as  though  I 
were  a  strange  offshoot  from  some  wayward  train. 

"  Many  trains  coming  along  this  way  ?  "  I  queried, 
wishing  to  know  what  I  should  have  to  meet,  as  there 
was  only  a  single  track,  double  tracks  being  seldom, 
if  ever,  laid  in  the  States,  and  if  one  was  unprepared  it 
might  prove  embarrassing  to  meet  a  train  coming  in 
the  opposite  direction  just  in  the  middle  of  a  tunnel  or  a 
bridge.  American  railway  bridges  are  remarkable  for  their 
narrowness.  Very  often  the  sleepers  themselves  project 
into  space,  and  never  is  there  any  track  beyond  them. 


88        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

"  You  said  it,  brother,"  he  replied,  "  dozens  of  'em." 
"  And  what's  more,  there's  a  couple  of  long  tunnels 
just  a  mile  away— look,  you  can  see  the  beginning — 
and  beyond  them  there's  a  bridge  pretty  nigh  half  a  mile 
long — and  trains  is  mighty  funny  things  to  play  hide 
and  seek  with,  y'  know  !  " 

I  was  of  that  opinion  myself.  As  I  looked,  I  saw  a 
train  emerge  from  the  tunnel  ahead.  I  reflected  that 
I  should  have  been  just  about  there  by  now  if  I  hadn't 
stopped.     I  went  back  to  Wheeling. 

The  next  day  I  covered  twenty  miles  in  four  hours 
and  found  myself  back  in  Wheeling  again,  but  this  time  by 
another  road.  Nothing  daunted,  I  said  nothing,  clenched 
my  teeth,  and  polished  off  another  twenty  until  dark. 

The  day  after  I  did  better.  The  nett  progress  at  the 
end  of  the  day's  work  was  twenty-five  miles  instead 
of  twenty.  I  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Missouri 
had  one  great  advantage  that  I  had  hitherto  overlooked. 
It  was  an  excellent  place  to  get  out  of ! 

On  the  next  day  I  covered  five  miles  in  six  hours,  and 
although  only  forty  miles  or  so  from  Kansas  City,  which 
marks  the  commencement  of  the  historic  Santa  Fe  Trail 
leading  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  I  made  a  solemn  vow  that 
I  would  "  ship  "  everything  there  by  train  at  the  next 
town.  The  next  town  happened  to  be  "  Excelsior 
Springs,"  twenty  miles  further  on.  The  road  improved 
considerably,  and  the  comforting  thought  of  civilization 
at  so  short  a  distance  urged  me  on  and  I  broke  that 
solemn  vow.  I  rode  into  Kansas  City  late  that  after- 
noon, a  mass  of  bruises  from  head  to  foot,  just  as  the 
speedometer  showed  1,919  miles  from  New  York.  I 
ferreted  out  the  Henderson  agent  and  left  Lizzie  in  his 
tender  keeping. 


CHAPTER  X 
RESULTS  OF  A  BREAKDOWN 

It  took  three  days  for  me  to  find  that  the  Kansas  City 
I  was  in  was  not  the  Kansas  City  I  thought  I  was  in. 
I  took  it  for  granted  that  Kansas  City  would  be  in  Kansas 
State.  But  it  was  not.  My  Kansas  City  was  in  Missouri, 
but  after  searching  diligently  at  the  post  office  for  mail 
that  wasn't  there,  I  found  there  was  another  Kansas  City 
on  the  other  bank  of  the  river.  All  good  citizens  of- 
Kansas  City,  Mo.,  turn  up  their  noses  at  the  mention  of 
Kansas  City,  Kan., — "  no  connection  with  the  firm 
opposite  "  sort  of  thing. 

Of  the  two,  Kansas  City,  Mo.,  is  by  far  the  more  com- 
mendable town.  It  hustles  and  bustles  just  as  every 
good  American  city  should  do.  It  is  exactly  "  one  hundred 
per  cent  American."  The  advertisements  in  the  papers 
said  so.  I  believe  it,  because  any  city  that  boasts  of  being 
four  times  larger  than  it  really  is  must  be  100  per  cent. 
American  !  But  I  must  give  Kansas  City  its  due.  It 
represents  the  essence  of  keenness  and  enterprise  in 
business  and  farming  circles.  It  has  that  "  breezy  "  air 
that  is  so  healthy  in  city  life,  compared  with  the  dull, 
gloomy  inertness  so  characteristic  of  most  manufacturing 
towns,  especially  here  in  England.  Kansas  City  has 
some  excellent  streets  and  some  magnificent  buildings, 
and  has  undoubtedly  grown  at  a  remarkable  rate  during 
the  last  ten  years.     Being  the  last  city  of  really  large 


90        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

dimensions  that  one  meets  until  the  Pacific  Coast  is 
reached,  it  is  the  connecting  link  between  the  East  and  the 
Far  West.  Grain  and  farm  produce  from  the  vast  States 
of  the  West  flow  unceasingly  through  its  warehouses 
and  stockyards.  A  network  of  railways  concentrates 
to  a  focus  at  Kansas  City,  railways  bringing  in  and  taking 
out  millions  of  tons  of  produce  annually. 

The  next  day,  when  I  visited  the  motor-cycle  agency, 
Lizzie  was  standing  disconsolately  where  I  had  left  her 
the  day  before.  I  begged,  entreated,  exhorted,  and 
threatened  that  she  be  given  immediate  attention.  I  lied 
abominably  to  the  manager  that  I  was  putting  up  a 
record  between  the  coasts  and  every  minute  was  important. 

How  could  I  expect  to  beat  all  existing  records  if  they 
kept  my  machine  in  dock  for  a  week  ?  I  was  promised 
that  it  would  be  started  on  u  right  now."  That  term 
"  right  now  "  has  a  significance  unknown  to  Europeans. 
It  is  subtle  and  evasive,  intangible  and  incomprehensible. 
It  conveys  a  sense  of  such  utter  obligation  on  the  part 
of  the  speaker  that  one  has  not  the  heart  to  query  its 
exact  purport.  As  far  as  I  can  ascertain,  or  at  any  rate 
as  far  as  I  have  experienced  its  application,  it  is  more 
similar  to  the  French  "  tout  de  suite  "  than  any  other 
expression  I  can  identify,  in  that  it  might  imply  anything 
between  the  immediate  present  and  the  indefinite 
future. 

Lizzie  required  several  replacements,  including  a  new 
set  of  bearings,  a  cylinder  and  two  gudgeon]  pins,  these 
latter  being  broken  in  half  at  the  middle.  The  agent 
told  me  that  they  always  were  liable  to  break.  If  they 
were  put  in  upside-down,  as  he  always  fitted  them,  so 
that  the  oil  hole  was  at  the  bottom  instead  of  the  top, 
they  would  not  break  at  all.     Further  he  hinted  that  my 


RESULTS   OF  A  BREAKDOWN  91 

particular  machine  was  turned  out  while  a  good  fat 
strike  was  in  progress  at  the  factory. 

u  Well,  you  can  stick  it  together  so  that  it  will  take  me 
to  the  coast  all  right  ?  "  I  queried  anxiously. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  guess  I  can,"  was  his  studied  reply. 

"  Go  right  ahead  then,  boss,  but  do  it  quick !  I'm 
running  short  of  money  and  can't  afford  to  stay  in  your 
metropolis  right  here  for  the  benefit  of  my  health." 

Being  destined  then  to  remain  in  Kansas  City  for  four 
or  five  days  more,  I  found  myself  with  ample  leisure  in 
which  to  collect  my  thoughts  and  prepare  for  the  journey 
through  the  "  wild  west  "  ahead. 

One  result  of  my  leisure  was  that  I  paid  a  visit  to  the 
editor  of  the  Kansas  City  Star.  This  is  one  of  the  most 
progressive  newspapers  in  the  United  States,  and  circulates 
everywhere  in  the  West.  The  extent  of  its  circulation 
and  the  results  of  its  progressiveness  I  was,  however, 
still  to  learn. 

The  editor  was  found  as  usual  at  his  desk  in  the  middle 
of  a  large  room,  surrounded  by  his  myrmidons  in  typical 
American  style.  He  greeted  me  with  extreme  cordiality. 
"  No  need  to  tell  you  I'm  English,  I  suppose  ? "  I 
said. 

"  See  that  door  over  there  ?  "  (pointing  to  the  one  in  the 
far  distance  through  which  I  had  entered).  "Well,  I 
spotted  you  were  an  Englishman  the  minute  you  came 
in  there." 

I  explained  with  complete  humiliation  that  I  was  travel- 
ling across  the  United  States  of  America  on  a  motor-cycle 
and  wondered ,  whether  his  readers  would  be  interested  in 
the  point  of  view  of  such  a  despicable  object  as  an  English 
motor  cyclist  on  this  great  and  wonderful  country.  "  Not 
for   the    love  of   the    thing,  you  know,"  I    added,   "  I 


92       ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  earn  a  dollar  or  two  on  the 
wayside." 

He  pointed  to  a  typewriter  standing  idle  at  a  desk. 
"  Let's  have  the  story  right  now,  and  give  us  something 
about  roads.  There's  a  big  movement  just  started  to 
get  good  roads,  so  you  can  just  hand  out  the  straight  dope 
to  everybody  on  the  subject.  Get  me  ?  Something 
good  and  snappy." 

I  explained  that  while  no  one  was  more  eminently 
capable  of  writing  about  American  roads  than  myself, 
I  had  never  graduated  as  a  typist  in  the  course  of  my 
business  career.  I  should,  therefore,  have  to  retire  and 
push  the  modest  pen. 

"  What !  a  business  man  who  can't  use  a  typewriter  ? 
I  didn't  know  there  was  such  a  thing,"  was  his  rejoinder. 

I  let  them  have  it  about  roads.  I  referred  also  to  their 
commendable  system  of  arresting  road-hogs.  This  with 
a  few  pro- American  embellishments  such  as  "  wonder- 
ful country,"  "  indescribable  beauty,"  "  inexhaustible 
wealth,"  etc.  etc.,  rounded  off  the  theme. 

My  friend  the  editor  not  only  rewarded  me  at  the  noble 
rate  of  a  dime  a  line  (5d.)f  thus  assuring  the  hotel  expenses 
for  my  stay  in  the  city,  but  also  gave  me  about  an  hour 
of  his  valuable  time  in  talking  about  almost  everything 
under  the  sun — mainly  American.  It  is  rather  surprising 
to  an  Englishman  to  find  that  practically  any  worthy 
American  business  man,  no  matter  how  busy  he  may  be 
or  how  valuable  the  time  lost  thereby,  will  entertain  a 
visitor  for  an  incredible  length  of  time.  If  the  visitor 
happens  to  be  an  Englishman,  he  is  all  the  more  pleased 
to  do  so  because  then  he  can  talk  uninterruptedly  about 
America  and  what  a  wonderful  country  it  is.  All  the  noted 
men  of  Europe,  I  learned,  had  been  in  the  office  and  sat 


RESULTS   OF  A  BREAKDOWN  93 

in  that  same  chair.  The  editor  told  me  so.  Lord  North- 
cliffe  spent  all  his  leisure  hours  there  while  in  the  States. 
So  also  did  many  other  notorieties,  some  unknown  to  me. 
Leastways,  so  the  editor  told  me.  I  took  his  money  and 
bade  him  farewell. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  SANTA  Ffi  TRAIL 

On  the  fifth  day  after  my  arrival  in  Kansas  City  all 
was  in  readiness  for  my  departure.  There  was  another 
big  bill  to  meet  for  Lizzie's  overhaul,  but  I  had  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  the  bearings  had  all  been  replaced, 
as  well  as  a  few  cylinders  and  pistons  and  things,  and  that 
there  was  just  a  chance  of  getting  to  the  coast  before 
something  else  went  wrong.  Once  again  I  wrote  polite 
letters  to  the  factory  at  Chicago,  paid  many  dozen  "  green 
backs "  over  the  counter,  and  started  off  once  more, 
this  time  with  only  thirty-five  dollars  in  pocket.  Once 
again  fate  and  the  post  office  had  been  unkind.  Not  a 
suggestion  of  anything  was  there  at  either  of  the  post 
offices  at  any  of  my  calls  thereon.  Amid  vague  wonderings 
and  oft  repeated  doubts  I  promised  myself  a  big  cheque 
at  Santa  F6,  next  stop.  I  was  just  beginning  to  know  the 
ins  and  outs  of  the  postal  service. 

The  Santa  F6  Trail  is  the  oldest  and  most  interesting 
highway  in  America.  Rather  should  it  be  said  that  the 
pioneers  over  what  later  became  known  as  the  Santa  F6 
Trail  were  the  first  to  leave  permanent  marks  on  routes 
that  have  since  become  "  highways  "  between  the  Cen- 
tral-Western and  the  Far- Western  States.  In  the  days 
of  the  ox  team  and  prairie-schooner,  the  plains  and  moun- 
tains were  crossed  by  trails,  usually  along  the  lines  of  least 
resistance,  keeping  as  close  as  possible  to  bases  of  supplies 

94 


THE   SANTA  F£  TRAIL  95 

and  water.  Travel  over  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  began  about 
1822,  starting  from  Little  Rock,  Arkansas  (pronounced 
Arkansaw),  and  following  the  Arkansas  River  west.  A 
few  years  later,  this  trail  was  superseded  by  a  more 
permanent  one  going  west  from  Kansas  City  (then  called 
Westport)  to  "  Great  Bend,"  a  base  situated,  as  its  name 
implies,  on  a  great  bend  of  the  Arkansas  River,  and  thence 
to  Santa  Fe  by  a  choice  of  two  routes.  An  important 
trade  with  the  Spanish  population  of  the  south-west 
was  early  developed,  reaching  its  zenith  in  the  '60s.  This 
route,  the  one  which  I  followed,  has  now  been  marked 
a  considerable  part  of  the  way  by  stone  monuments  erected 
by  the  u  Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution  "  and 
constituted  the  chief  inroad  from  the  East  to  the  Far  West. 
Santa  F6  itself,  next  to  St.  Augustine,  Florida,  is  the  most 
ancient  city  in  America,  having  been  founded  in  1605  by 
Spanish  settlers  on  the  site  of  a  "  pueblo "  or  Indian 
village  of  far-distant  origin.  Naturally,  therefore,  it  was 
the  centre  of  trade  for  years  numbered  by  hundreds,  and 
traders  from  afar  brought  their  goods  and  supplies  in 
boats  up  the  rivers  as  far  as  navigable  and  then  in  teams 
across  the  dreary  plains  and  over  the  steep  Rockies  to  this 
one  destination. 

Later,  in  the  gold-rush  to  California  in  1849,  emigrants 
reached  San  Francisco,  the  "  Golden  Gate,"  via  this  same 
Santa  Fe  Trail,  undergoing  indescribable  hardships  on 
the  way,  and  at  all  times  subjected  to  frequent  onslaughts 
by  the  hostile  Indians. 

The  first  railroads  were  built  across  the  plains  alongside 
the  old  trails.  The  first  automobile  trips  (and  I  take  off 
my  hat  to  them  !)  naturally  followed  the  railroads,  from  the 
necessity  of  keeping  near  to  supplies.  But  the  motor-car 
of  to-day  frequently  makes  either  short  cuts  or  detours — 


96        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

leading  perhaps  100  or  200  miles  away  from  the  railroad — 
in  order  to  visit  sections  offering  unusual  attractions,  or 
places  of  historical  interest,  even  when  located  in  desert 
regions. 

Thus,  with  Kansas  City  behind  me,  the  journey  begins  to 
be  really  interesting  from  an  historic,  if  not  from  a  scenic 
point  of  view.  The  hand  of  modern  civilization  at  last 
is  seen  to  relax  its  grasp.  Now,  instead  of  the  prosaic, 
the  conventional  and  the  luxurious,  are  we  to  find  the 
unique,  the  heterodox  and  the  primitive.  After  the 
tainted  breath  of  huge  cities  and  the  seething,  crushing, 
maddening  turmoil  of  wealth  and  modernism  are  to 
follow  the  pure  unbounded  atmosphere  of  the  giant  plains, 
the  mystic  call  of  the  great  mountains,  the  vastness,  the 
fearfulness  and  the  rapture  of  the  scorching  deserts. 
Which  shall  it  be  for  me  ? 

Before  me  lie  500  miles  of  perfectly  flat  and  uninteresting 
country  before  I  leave  the  State  of  Kansas  and  enter 
Colorado.  Then  follow  another  200  equally  flat,  equally 
drear,  to  be  crossed  before  the  Rockies  loom  into  sight. 
Seven  hundred  miles  of  endless  weary  prairie,  stretching 
always,  everywhere,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  with  never 
a  hill  nor  a  dale  nor  hardly  a  tree  in  sight ! — Nothing  but 
boundless,   illimitable  corn,   wheat  and  prairie. 

That  night,  after  an  afternoon's  run  of  120  miles,  I 
rested  in  a  cornfield.  The  road  had  ended  abruptly.  An 
old  bridge  had  been  demolished  and  a  new  one  was  about  to 
be  erected.  A  heap  of  debris  in  the  middle  attracted  my 
attention,  and  I  was  fortunate.  Here  the  road  ended  ; 
there  was  a  little  chasm  some  thirty  feet  across  ;  beyond 
was  the  road  again.  Nothing  for  it  but  to  turn  back. 
Turning  back  is  always  objectionable.  I  deemed  that  it 
would  be  less  so  in  the  morning.     That  is  why  I  wrapped 


THE   SANTA   Ffi  TRAIL  97 

myself  in  my  mosquito  net  behind  a  hedge  in  a  cornfield 
and  offered  up  thanksgiving. 

The  mosquito  net — I  have  not  mentioned  it  before  !  I 
purchased  three  yards  of  it  in  a  little  store  back  in  Mis- 
souri while  waiting  for  the  road  to  dry  up.  I  also  bought 
a  cap.  Having  worn  no  headgear  since  leaving  New  York, 
I  soon  discarded  the  cap  and  later  gave  it  away  to  a  little 
urchin  who  looked  as  though  he  needed  one  more  than  I. 
But  the  mosquito  net  remained  for  a  longer  spell.  Nightly 
was  it  unfolded  and  wrapped  around  my  unworthy  self,  and 
daily  was  it  folded  carefully  up  again  and  packed  into 
the  bag  once  more. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  mosquito  net.  It  was  white. 
Leastways  it  was  when  I  bought  it.  I  tried  countless 
ways  of  enveloping  myself  in  its  folds,  but  never  with 
any  great  measure  of  success.  The  tout  ensemble  when 
struggles  had  subsided,  with  self  in  pyjamas  sur- 
rounded by  wrappings  of  white  chiffon  on  a  black  back- 
ground (my  waterproof  groundsheet)  must  have  presented 
an  extraordinary  spectacle  to  the  poor  birds  above.  No 
doubt  they  mistook  me  for  some  miscreant  angel  served 
with  an  ejectment  order  without  notice  from  the  star-lit 
sky  !  At  first  all  went  well.  I  breathed  the  calm  midnight 
air  unmolested.  "  It  can't  be  true,"  I  told  myself, 
"  there  is  a  catch  in  it  somewhere."  There  was.  I 
discovered  that  whereas  it  was  comparatively  difficult 
for  a  mosquito  to  get  inside  the  net,  once  he  did  get  inside 
it  was  an  utter  impossibility  to  get  him  out  again.  One 
mosquito  inside  a  mosquito  net  is  worth  much  more  than 
two  outside.    He  is  worth  at  least  forty  ! 

Then  I  tried  various  stunts  because,  when  I  did  get 
properly  wrapped  up,  I  invariably  rolled  out  of  it  in  my 
sleep.     I  rigged  up  poles  and  sticks  and  cut  little  pegs 

H 


98        ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

from  twigs  to  hold  the  net  down  like  a  tent.  I  had  it 
stitched  up  the  sides  like  a  bag  and  wriggled  into  it  nightly, 
only  to  find  it  wrapped  around  my  feet  in  the  morning 
and  my  face  and  arms  a  mass  of  bites.  Finally,  in  the 
heart  of  the  Rockies  I  think  it  was,  I  gave  it  up  as  a  bad 
job  and  resorted  to  the  Citronella  method  once  again. 
For  aught  I  know  that  old  mosquito-net  is  still  hanging 
to  the  fence  of  a  cow-ranch  at  the  foot  of  Pike's  Peak, 
Colo.  ! 

Up  at  dawn  in  the  morning  and  away.  I  found  another 
road  some  three  miles  back  and  continued  on  my  way 
westward  rejoicing.  Sixty  miles  were  covered  before 
breakfast.  The  towns  and  villages  became  very  few  and 
far  between,  and  Council  Grove,  where  I  enjoyed  my 
morning  repast,  was  practically  the  first  town  to  be  en- 
countered. I  had  set  my  mind  on  a  good  day's  run  and 
prayed  for  good  roads.  On  my  map,  which  was  said  to 
be  the  only  road-map  of  the  United  States  published,  and 
was  hopelessly  inaccurate  and  inadequate,  there  was  a 
huge  river,  the  Arkansas,  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  ahead. 
I  judged  it  to  be  about  half  a  mile  wide.  Verily,  thought 
I,  the  Arkansas  River  shall  be  my  resting  place  to-night, 
and  Great  Bend  my  destination. 

After  a  long  day's  ride  I  toiled  into  Great  Bend  at  sunset. 
The  journey  had  been  monotonous  and  the  road  fatiguing. 
I  longed  to  stretch  my  weary  bones  on  the  banks  of  yon 
mighty  river  and  bathe  in  its  refreshing  waters.  While 
I  was  devouring  my  evening  meal,  on  a  little  high  stool 
in  the  one  and  only  cafe"  of  Great  Bend,  I  was  consoling 
myself  with  this  prospect. 

Outside,  a  little  group  of  men  were  sitting  on  the  pave- 
ment eyeing  Lizzie  propped  up  against  the  kerb.  It  is 
the  general  thing  to  sit  on  pavements  in  the  Far  West. 


THE  SANTA  Ffi  TRAIL  99 

They  are  much  higher  than  those  we  are  accustomed  to 
and  afford  adequate  and  comfortable  accommodation  for 
the  weary  population.  Often  one  can  see  a  row  of  men 
sitting  on  the  kerb  for  the  whole  length  of  a  "  block  " 
when  the  sun  is  in  such  a  direction  that  the  sitters  are 
sheltered  by  the  buildings  behind  them.  I  made  a  mental 
note  :  "  Another  good  idea  for  importation  to  England." 
I  pictured  tired  Londoners  sitting  down  in  rows  on  the 
pavements  of  the  Strand  or  clustered  leisurely  around 
Piccadilly  Circus  chewing  "  shag  "  ! 

My   pockets   bulged   with   bottles   of   "  Buckeye,"    an 
imitation  root  beer  sold  extensively  in  the  States  (since 
prohibition)  and  alleged  to  have  a  "  kick "  in    it.     A 
suspicious  swelling  elsewhere  on  my  person  indicated  a 
tin  of  pineapple  chunks  (a  delight  of  my  youth). 
*  Goin'  f ar  ?  "  inquired  one  of  my  scrutineers. 
"  Down  to  the  river  to-night.     This  the  right  road  ?  " 
"  Right  slick  in  front  of  your  nose  half  a  mile  away." 
I   came  to   a  long  wooden  bridge   arrangement,   but 
could  find  no  river.     After  going  two  or  three  miles  and 
finding  no  Arkansas,  I  returned  to  Great  Bend  to  try 
another  road.     This  time  I  inquired  at  the  cafe. 
"  Straight  ahead,  you  can't  miss  the  bridge." 
"  Oh,  is  there  a  river  there  ?     I  didn't  see  one." 
Back    again  to  the  bridge,  but  no  signs  of   a    river. 
Instead  there  was  a  great  stretch  of  white  sand  like  a  sea- 
beach,  but  with  little  trees  and  shrubs  and  tufts  of  grass 
dotted  here  and  there. 

"  Well,  this  is  no  Arkansas  River,"  said  I  to  myself, 
"  but  I'm  through.  This  sand  looks  pretty  comfortable, 
so  here  goes." 

In  amongst  the  sand  dunes  I  made  my  bed  and  never 
did  traveller  camp  in  more  delightful  surroundings  or  rest 


100      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

in  more  peaceful  conditions.  The  stars  shone  out  with 
unusual  brilliancy  in  the  heavens,  and  the  moon  rose  at 
the  setting  of  the  sun,  enveloping  all  in  a  magic  sheen  of 
silver.  A  soft  cool  breeze  played  gently  over  the  plain 
and  little  birds  of  unknown  song  and  uncounted  variety 
slowly  sang  themselves  to  rest.  This  indeed  was  no  night 
for  sleep  ;  more  was  it  a  time  for  quiet  contemplation  of 
all  the  things  that  make  life  good  and  noble  and  worthy 
of  the  living.  How  terrible,  how  awful  it  would  be  when 
I  should  in  the  end  return  to  the  narrow  beaten  track 
of  city  life,  and  once  again  be  fettered  to  "  the  trivial 
round,  the  common  task  "  that  knows  no  magic  spell  and 
thrills  with  no  mystic  breath.  Could  it  ever  be  that  the 
duties  that  bind  and  numb,  the  needs  that  hamper  and  clog, 
the  tasks  that  chill  and  estrange,  should  once  again 
enshroud  me  in  their  toils  ?  Such  I  suppose  are  the 
meditations  of  everyone  who  breaks  away  from  home  to 
enjoy  for  a  spell  the  bounties  of  nature  and  whose  canopy 
is  the  sky. 

In  the  morning  I  awoke  as  fresh  as  the  merry  sandpipers 
and  waterwagtails  that  ran  and  hopped  about  in  dozens. 
There  was  no  trace  of  fatigue,  no  thought  but  of  the  glorious 
day  that  was  opening,  no  regret  but  that  every  day 
had  not  brought  and  would  not  bring  this  rapturous 
dawn. 

I  learned  in  the  village  that  I  had  indeed  slept  in  the 
middle  of  the  Arkansas  River  !  The  summer  had  been 
excessively  dry  and  that  part  of  the  river  which,  several 
hundred  miles  away,  had  risen  boisterously  in  the  heart 
of  the  Rockies  and  had  not  been  dried  up  with  the  heat, 
had  drained  through  the  sandy  bed,  never  to  emerge 
again.  This  though  was  one  of  many  rivers  that  I  was  to 
meet  with  no  water  in  them.     Sometimes  even,  I  was  to 


THE  SANTA  Ffi  TRAIL  101 

see  fences  and  railways  erected  across  would-be  rivers 
to  prevent  the  cattle  straying ! 

The  farther  westward  I  travelled  the  fewer  became  the 
towns.  Nevertheless,  albeit  they  were  sometimes  thirty 
and  forty  miles  apart,  they  were  all  prosperous,  new 
and  inviting.  Of  gasoline  there  was  always  an  abun- 
dant supply  at  22  cents  (lid.)  per  gallon.  Of  garages 
there  were  enough  and  to  spare.  Indeed,  it  was  surprising 
what  palatial  garages  were  to  be  found  everywhere.  Out- 
side each  was  the  familiar  "  Bowser "  pump  communi- 
cating with  a  1,000-gallon  tank  below  the  pavement  from 
which  anything  from  half  a  gallon  to  six  gallons  at  a  time 
could  be  pumped  up  by  the  garage  hand  at  one  turn  of 
the  handle.  A  flexible  pipe  with  a  cock  at  the  end  leads 
from  the  pump,  and  one's  tank  can  be  filled  in  a  few  seconds 
without  a  drop  being  spilt.  Not  once  in  all  my  travel 
through  the  States  have  I  seen  a  petrol  tin.  I  do  not 
believe  they  are  used  at  all  because  nowhere  in  the  States 
is  it  necessary  to  travel  by  road  with  spare  petrol  on 
board,  provided,  of  course,  that  one  is  careful  to  fill  up 
regularly  at  the  different  towns  or  stations  on  the  way. 
Even  in  the  heart  of  New  Mexico  and  Arizona,  even  in  the 
terrible  "  Death  Valley  "  and  Mohave  Desert  of  California, 
stations  are  found  where  "  gas  "  and  oil  can  be  bought  in 
plenty  to  carry  one  well  beyond  the  next  to  be  reached. 

At  Lamed  I  made  a  hearty  breakfast  from  canteloupe, 
coffee  and  "  pie."  Now  "  pie  "  is  one  hundred  per  cent, 
symbolical  of  America.  In  the  States  they  have  attained 
the  absolute  limit  of  perfection  in  the  manufacture  of 
pies ;  indeed  I  think  it  must  be  a  "  key "  industry. 
Not  only  can  pies  of  every  conceivable  kind  of  fruit  (and 
many  inconceivable  ones)  be  obtained,  but  the  cooking 
thereof  is  perfection  itself. 


102      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

On  the  road  again,  ever  westward,  ever  looking  for- 
ward to  the  day  when  from  the  dreadful  monotony  of 
the  plains  the  Rocky  Mountains  would  loom  high  and 
faint  upon  the  horizon. 

I  passed  a  few  small  towns  at  long  intervals,  towns  with 
picturesque  names  such  as  "  Cimarron,"  "  Garden  City," 
"  Lamar,"  and  "  Las  Animas."  In  every  case  an  ap- 
proaching town  was  heralded  by  an  unspeakable  stretch 
of  road.  With  the  passage  of  traffic  of  all  kinds  the  road 
was  ground  up  into  powder.  Every  inch  of  it  was  loose 
sand,  sometimes  a  couple  or  three  feet  deep,  sand  that 
would  be  impassable  to  any  but  horse-drawn  traffic. 
As  a  saving  grace  it  was  generally  less  deep  at  the  edges  of 
the  road  than  in  the  middle,  and  locomotion  was  just 
within  the  range  of  possibility  with  frequent  assistance 
by  way  of  "  leg- work  "  and  with  occasional  spills  and 
crashes.  The  only  use  I  had  for  these  towns  lay  in  the 
unlimited  scope  for  ice-cream  consumption  which  they 
all  afforded.  As  time  went  on,  Lizzie  showed  signs  of 
further  disrupture.  Gradually  little  noises  and  rattles 
developed  and  slowly  her  power  fell  off  by  almost  im- 
perceptible degrees.  Of  course  I  had  ample  power  even 
at  that  to  cover  the  country,  which,  with  few  exceptions, 
was  level,  and  the  road,  where  dry,  was  good.  I  averaged 
no  more  than  twenty-five,  and  as  there  was  hardly  any 
stop  to  make  or  traffic  to  slow  down  for,  this  did  not  mean 
travelling  more  than  thirty  at  any  time.  A  good  con- 
scientious motorist,  I  told  myself,  would  stop  and  examine 
everything.  I  had  got  far  beyond  that  stage.  H  Let  the  old 
crock  go  on  till  she  busts,"  I  muttered  inwardly  and 
opened  up  to  avoid  an  oncoming  thunderstorm. 

Thunderstorms  travel  quickly  in  U.S.A.     They  get  a 
hustle  on  and  don't  mess  about  generally.     There's  never 


THE   SANTA  Ffi  TRAIL  103 

any  doubt  about  it  when  you  see  one  coming.  It  means 
business  ;  there  is  none  of  that  burbling,  gurgling,  gloomy 
overture  that  hangs  around  for  hours  in  England  and  very 
often  comes  to  nothing  at  all.  No,  no.  In  U.S.A.  you 
see  a  thundercloud  on  the  horizon  and  before  you've 
got  "  George  Washington  "  off  your  lips  it's  on  you  with 
a  crack  and  a  bump  and  a  splash  and  woe  betide  any 
innocent  motor-cyclist  who  is  riding  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
with  his  jacket  strapped  on  the  back. 

But  that  rain  was  good  !  Kansas  can  be  hot  when  it 
likes  and  it's  mostly  liking  all  the  time,  so  that  a  shower- 
bath  is  a  gift  from  the  gods.  When  it  stopped,  and 
fortunately  before  it  had  had  time  to  do  its  foul  work  on 
the  surface  of  the  dirt  road,  I  arrived  in  Syracuse,  a 
small  town  with  not  much  of  a  population  to  substantiate 
its  artistic  name,  and  but  twenty  or  thirty  miles  from  the 
Colorado  State  Line.  Net  result  150  odd  miles  that  day 
and  to-morrow  with  luck  I  should  behold  the  Rockies. 
Oh,  those  Rockies  !    How  I  longed  to  see  them  ! 

The  rest  of  the  evening  I  spent  adjusting  Lizzie's  tappets 
(they  had  all  worked  loose,  hence  the  noise)  and  eating 
pies  and  ices  at  every  cafe  in  the  place.  The  night  was 
spent  in  a  dirty  inhospitable  little  inn  calling  itself,  I 
think,  the  Broadway  Temperance  Hotel.  Heaven  help 
Broadway,  and  the  Devil  take  all  temperance  hotels  ! 
I  shivered  as  I  compared  this  with  the  night  before. 

Westward  once  more.  In  an  hour  I  crossed  the  State 
Line.  Invariably  there  is  a  large  sign-board  denoting 
this  fact.  "  This  is  the  State  of  Colorado,  the 
most  Picturesque  and  Fertile  State  in  the  Union," 
it  read  on  this  occasion.  This  time  there  was  not  such 
a  marked  change  in  the  country.  It  was  still  flat,  still 
dismally    uninteresting.     Everything    looked    dried    up. 


104      ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

At  times  the  trail,  which  hitherto  had  followed  the  Ar- 
kansas "  River,"  crossed  and  recrossed  it  by  long  low 
creaky  wooden  bridges.  There  was  still  no  water  flowing 
underneath  them.  "  Water  ?  That  was  only  meant  to 
flow  under  bridges,"  says  the  confirmed  toper.  The 
Arkansas  River  "  puts  him  wise  "  on  that  point ! 

Flagrant  mistakes  now  appeared  on  the  map.  Roads 
and  towns  which  in  reality  lay  on  one  side  of  the  river 
were  alleged  to  be  on  the  other.  Distances  became  either 
grossly  exaggerated  or  hopelessly  underestimated,  so  much 
so  that  I  only  expected  to  get  to  a  place  when  I  found 
myself  already  there.  If  it  turned  out  to  be  another  place 
than  that  I  had  expected — well,  there,  that  made  it  all 
the  more  exciting. 

Later  on  the  trail  became  very  dishevelled  and  forlorn. 
Great  waves  of  sand  were  piled  up  in  ridges  and  furrows 
defying  all  comers.  Sometimes  a  benevolent  signpost 
advised  all  drivers  of  automobiles  not  to  risk  travelling 
thereon,  but  to  follow  such  and  such  a  detour  which 
would  lead  back  to  the  road  ten  or  fifteen  miles  farther 
on.  I  saw  many  such  notices.  At  first  I  scorned  them, 
but  the  sand  grew  so  thick  and  deep  that  it  enveloped  the 
frame  of  the  machine  and  the  projecting  footboards  brought 
progress  to  a  standstill.  For  several  hours  I  pushed  and 
heaved  and  skidded  and  floundered  about  on  highways  and 
detours  and  pathways  that  baffle  description.  If  I 
averaged  ten  miles  an  hour  I  was  content  with  that.  I 
got  through  many  places  that  passing  pedestrians  swore 
were  impassable.  In  short  I  was  beginning  to  reduce 
locomotion  over  American  roads  to  a  science. 

At  La  Junta,  the  Santa  F6  Trail  swerves  to  the  south- 
west towards  New  Mexico,  but  another  trail  continues 
westward  and  northward  towards  Pueblo,  Colorado  Springs, 


THE  SANTA  Ffi  TRAIL  105 

and  Denver,  the  three  "  cities  "  of  Colorado  State,  and 
Pike's  Peak,  one  of  the  highest  points  of  the  Rockies. 
I  decided  to  leave  the  trail  for  a  day  or  two  and  go  sight- 
seeing in  famous  Colorado.  So  I  continued  westward, 
scanning  the  horizon  all  the  time  for  a  vision  of  a  vast 
and  rugged  mountain  range.  The  sight  of  mountains 
would  be  as  balm  to  a  sore  wound  ;  as  welcome  as  a  spring 
of  water  in  the  desert ;  or  even  as  the  sight  of  land  to  a 
shipwrecked  mariner,  so  heartily  tired  was  I  of  the  endless 
plains  and  the  inexhaustible  flatness  and  monotony  of 
the  country  for  the  past  thousand  miles. 

Instead  of  mountains  came  a  cloud.  Soon  the  whole 
horizon  was  black.  I  knew  what  that  meant.  It  meant 
"  laying  up  "  for  a  day  or  two  and  looking  round  for  a 
good  place  to  lay  up  at  "  right  slick."  But  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  nowhere.  Not  a  house  or  a  shack  could  be  seen 
anywhere.  Even  as  I  scanned  the  country  the  rain 
came.  The  road  was  not  sandy  enough  for  it  to  soak 
through.  Instead  it  absorbed  it  greedily  and  changed  to 
mud.  I  rode  as  far  as  riding  was  practicable  and  then  I 
pushed.  In  a  few  miles  I  came  to  a  little  wooden  shack 
at  the  side  of  the  road  near  a  large  dyke  already  swollen 
with  rain.  The  shack  looked  as  though  it  had  recently 
been  thrown  together  with  matchboarding  and  liberal 
use  had  been  made  of  tarpaulins  as  curtains  instead  of 
doors.     I  left  Lizzie  in  the  road  and  went  to  explore. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  ROYAL  GORGE  OF  ARKANSAS 

There  were  two  huts.  I  drew  aside  the  tarpaulin  and 
peered  in  one  of  them.  It  was  stuffy  and  dark  and 
filled  with  beds,  tables,  cupboards  and  piles  of  odd  furniture 
and  miscellaneous  clothing,  boots,  blankets  and  mattresses. 
In  a  clearing  amongst  the  general  debris  sat  a  middle-aged 
woman  on  the  top  of  a  trunk  before  a  sewing  machine. 

"  Hope  I'm  not  intruding,  but  is  there  anywhere  I 
can  get  out  of  the  rain  until  it  goes  off  ?  " 

From  a  heap  of  assorted  oddments  under  my  very  nose 
came  a  voice,  a  man's  voice. 

"  Sure  ;  come  right  in,  brother.  You're  welcome  to  any 
shelter  we  can  give  you.  Guess  you've  gotten  a  little 
wet  out  there  ?  Jim,  go  you  into  the  kitchen  and  bring 
a  chair  for  this  gentleman." 

A  pile  of  musty  books  rocked  on  its  foundations  in  an- 
other corner  and  a  young  lad  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  rose  as 
if  from  out  of  the  earth. 

We  talked  for  an  hour,  but  the  storm  showed  no  signs 
of  abating.  The  wind  whistled  through  the  tarpaulin 
doorway  and  gloomy  blobs  of  water  dropped  from  the 
ceiling  from  time  to  time  on  all  and  sundry. 

Strange  to  say  I  did  not  betray  my  nationality.  I 
presume  that  by  that  time  I  had  unconsciously  acquired 
in  a  small  degree  the  language  of  the  race. 

"  You're  from  the  East,  I  suppose  ?  "   queried  mine 

106 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE  OF  ARKANSAS   107 

hostess  after  half  an  hour,  the  first  words  I  had  heard 
her  speak. 

"  Oh,  sure,  I'm  from  the  East,  the  far  East — in  fact,  the 
very  Far  East !  "  I  replied. 

"  Boston  ?  " 

"  You've  said  it,"  was  my  rejoinder.  "  Ever  been  to 
Boston  ?  "  I  added. 

"  Yep,  I  was  there  I  reckon  fifteen  fall.  All  I  remember 
now  was  the  railway  depot.  What  do  they  call  it,  the 
South  Union  ?  " 

"  Sure,  it's  the  South  Union  all  right.  Why,  I  was 
born  only  a  couple  of  blocks  from  the  South  Union 
depot." 

Miserable  liar  that  I  am,  I  have  never  been  in  Boston 
in  my  life. 

"  Fine  city,  Boston,"  interjected  the  male  voice  from 
below. 

"  The  finest  in  the  world,  sir,"  I  effused. 

Meanwhile  the  rain  continued,  with  not  the  slightest 
sign  of  abating. 

"  You  best  bring  your  motor-sickle  under  shelter  and 
stay  the  night  right  here,"  suggested  the  man  of  the  house 
when  the  shadows  deepened  and  still  the  rain  went  on. 

"  I'm  sure  that's  very  good  of  you,  sir,  but  I'm  afraid 
I'd  better  not  trouble  you  any  more." 

"  No  trouble  at  all ;  we're  delighted  to  have  you  ;  we 
can  soon  make  a  bed  up  with  a  few  chairs  and  some  of 
these  blankets." 

I  was  only  too  pleased  to  avail  myself  of  their  hospitality 
and  agreed. 

At  supper  I  had  a  chance  of  studying  the  various 
members  of  the  family.  Apart  from  the  man  and  his  wife, 
there  were  two  boys,  and  quite  a  few  more  people  rolled 


108      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

in  afterwards  from  a  source  unknown  to  me.  Supper 
consisted  of  stewed  beans,  with  plenty  of  bread  and  water, 
and  more  beans. 

That  night  I  slept  on  four  chairs  in  a  row  near  the  door. 
The  two  boys  were  elsewhere  in  the  gloomy  darkness 
within.  All  through  the  night  I  waged  war  upon  mos- 
quitoes and  slapped  myself  vigorously  for  many  hours 
until  the  guerrilla  warfare  grew  so  tiring  that  sleep  over- 
came its  anxiety.  The  mosquitoes  then  nibbled  my 
face  to  their  hearts'  content — if  they  have  hearts,  which 
is  doubtful. 

In  the  morning  breakfast  consisted  of  stewed  beans 
with  plenty  of  bread  and  water,  and  more  beans. 

By  lunch-time  it  was  still  raining,  but  slower.  I  stayed 
to  lunch.  It  consisted  of  stewed  beans,  with  plenty  of 
bread  and  water,  and  lots  more  beans. 

In  the  afternoon  the  sky  cleared,  the  sun  opened  his 
eyes  with  a  snap  and  began  his  work  of  drying  up  the 
roads.  Throughout  the  day  I  had  employed  my  time 
with  giving  Lizzie  an  overhaul.  I  had  the  cylinders 
off,  examined  the  bearings,  and  tightened  things  generally. 
Meanwhile  I  discovered  that  my  friends  were  building 
a  house  on  an  adjoining  field.  They  were  doing  the 
work  alone,  with  the  help  of  a  few  friends,  who  no  doubt 
accounted  for  the  other  partakers  of  stewed  beans.  A 
pile  of  timber  lay  in  one  corner  of  the  field  and  the  founda- 
tions had  already  been  laid  and  the  uprights  erected. 

It  was  well  seen  that  the  house  was  for  themselves  to 
live  in.  Never  have  I  seen  a  house  grow  so  quickly  or 
watched  the  progress  of  one  so  keenly.  Moreover  the 
walls  were  not  all  out  of  the  vertical  or  the  windows  far 
from  square  as  one  generally  gets  in  home-made  houses 
(and  very  often  other  kinds  too  !) 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE  OF  ARKANSAS   109 

"  You'd  better  stay  and  have  something  to  eat,  brother," 
said  mine  host  as  I  was  strapping  my  bag  on  Lizzie's 
back  in  preparation  to  depart.  "  We've  only  got  stewed 
beans,  but  they're  a  mighty  wholesome  food." 

But  I  had  visions  of  apricot  pie  in  Pueblo,  thirty  miles 
ahead,  and  urged  my  desire  to  be  getting  on  the  road 
"  right  now  "  while  the  weather  lasted. 

They  were  good  folks,  those  house-builders  of  Nepesta. 
Not  a  cent  would  they  accept  under  any  circumstances 
for  their  hospitality  to  me.  They  worked  hard  and 
feared  God,  and  every  time  they  partook  of  their  frugal 
meals  grace  was  said  beforehand  and  afterwards  as  well, 
in  thanksgiving  for  the  blessings  that  rewarded  their 
toils.  One  could  not  refrain  from  comparing  the  civiliza- 
tion of  the  West  with  the  sordid  life-scramble  of  the  East. 

Once  on  the  road  again  the  despondent  sort  of  gloom 
that  seemed  to  surround  everything  became  a  thing  of 
the  past,  as  gradually  the  Rockies  loomed  up  on  the 
horizon  ;  at  first  faint  and  mysterious  they  gradually 
deepened  in  colour  and  sharpened  in  outline.  What  a 
refreshing  and  soul-inspiring  sight  after  nearly  1,000 
miles  of  travel  across  the  dusty,  dreary,  tiring  plains  ! 

In  the  late  afternoon  a  thin  cloud  of  curling  black 
smoke  was  seen  upon  the  horizon.  This  is  invariably  the 
forerunner  of  a  western  town.  Long  before  one  actually 
draws  near  to  one's  destination,  if  that  destination  be  a 
town,  it  is  discernible  sometimes  twenty  and  even  thirty 
miles  away  by  the  tufts  and  clouds  of  smoke  that  hang 
over  it.  The  sight  is  as  that  of  a  huge  Atlantic  liner  no 
more  than  a  fraction  above  the  horizon.  One  cannot 
discern  its  hidden  size  or  form,  but  the  smoke  from  its 
funnels  threads  upwards  into  the  heavens  like  a  sentinel 
in  the  engulfing  vastness  of  the  sea. 


110      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

Thus  does  one  approach  a  town  set  in  the  heart  of  a 
bewildering  plain.  Gradually  it  is  possible  to  discern 
here  and  there  a  chimney-stack  and  sometimes  the  re- 
flection of  a  solitary  window  in  one  of  the  tallest  buildings 
will  scintillate  on  the  distant  horizon. 

The  busy  town  of  Pueblo  drew  nigh.  With  a  rapidly 
increasing  population  of  over  50,000  and  nearly  300 
factories,  some  of  which  are  among  the  largest  steel-manu- 
facturing plants  in  the  States,  Pueblo  is  known  as  the 
"  Pittsburgh  of  the  West."  But  let  not  the  reader  be 
misled  by  this  title  into  thinking  that  Pueblo  is  miserable 
and  gloomy  and  odoriferous  as  is  the  wont  of  most  towns 
of  its  character.  Its  streets  are  wide,  clean  and  well-lit 
with  electric  lamps ;  its  buildings  also  are  clean  and  of 
comely  architecture ;  there  are  no  slums  or  poverty- 
stricken  quarters,  and  with  the  giant  mountains  looming 
in  the  distance  Pueblo  is  an  ideal  manufacturing  town 
in  ideal  surroundings,  besides  being  the  centre  of  a  rich 
mining  district. 

From  Pueblo,  after  ministering  to  the  wants  of  the 
inner  man,  I  turned  again  westward  towards  Canyon 
City,  some  forty  miles  away  in  the  heart  of  the  Colorado 
Rockies,  in  order  to  visit  the  famous  Royal  Gorge,  known 
also  as  the  "  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Arkansas,"  thence  to 
return  by  a  large  detour  through  Colorado  Springs,  another 
western  city  like  Pueblo,  and  with  perchance  a  side-trip 
up  the  automobile  road  that  has  been  cut  to  the  summit 
of  Pike's  Peak  (the  highest  highway  in  the  world),  to 
return  to  the  trail  to  the  south  into  New  Mexico. 

That  rise  from  Pueblo  into  the  Rockies  will  linger  ever 
in  my  memory.  Surrounded  in  all  directions  but  behind 
with  glowering  mountain  ranges,  the  road  cut  across 
vast  rolling  plains  and  prairies  that  spoke  of  desolation 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE  OF  ARKANSAS   111 

immense  and  wonderful.  As  the  sun  set  behind  the 
mountains  they  became  tinged  and  fired  with  every 
shade  of  colour,  and  darkness  slowly  crept  through  the 
valleys  and  filled  the  air  with  vague  wonder  and  glorious 
contentment.  In  front  and  slightly  to  the  right  rose 
Pike's  Peak  high  above  its  fellows,  thrusting  its  massive 
splendour  14,000  feet  and  more  into  the  ruddy  heavens. 
An  eerie  feeling  of  intense  loneliness  crept  through  my 
veins  as  mile  after  mile  was  passed  through  naked  prairie 
in  the  midst  of  such  awful  surroundings,  with  never  a 
soul  to  be  seen.  I  travelled  thirty  miles  before  the  chilly 
breezes  and  the  growing  darkness  constrained  me  to  stop. 
(The  headlight  was  hors  de  combat ;  only  the  "  dimmer  " 
would  work.)  In  all  that  distance  I  saw  no  living  thing 
save  the  tufted  grass  and  the  black  pine-trees  peppered 
over  the  sides  of  the  foothills. 

When  progress  was  no  longer  possible,  I  pulled  Lizzie 
to  the  side  of  the  dusty  road,  propped  up  her  stand,  and 
unfolded  my  blanket  on  the  grass  of  the  prairie  at  her 
side.  Once  again  I  should  enjoy  the  sweet  luxury  of 
Nature's  bedchamber  in  the  heart  of  Nature's  best. 

But  Dame  Nature's  bedchamber  is  oft  a  chilly  and 
inhospitable  one,  and  despite  the  invitations  she  tenders 
to  all  who  count  themselves  her  lovers.  "  Bring  your  own 
blankets  "  is  the  one  stipulation.  She  will  provide  the 
rest.  She  will  bring  the  magic  sleep,  the  fairy  dreams, 
the  golden  dawn  and  the  thrills  of  ecstasy  as  one  wakes 
again  fresh  and  strong  into  her  lovely  world  of  health  and 
beauty. 

From  rolling  plains  we  passed  to  bounding  foothills 
where  the  road  twisted  and  turned  and  crossed  torrential 
streams,  spanned  by  picturesque  stone  bridges,  until  the 
delightful   little   town   of  Florence   was   reached.     Here 


112      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

came  a  short  stop  for  breakfast  and  thence  on  again 
towards  Canyon  City. 

From  Canyon  City  to  the  Royal  Gorge  has  been  built 
a  wonderful  piece  of  road,  winding  and  climbing  into  the 
very  heart  of  Colorado's  rugged  bosom.  The  gradient  in 
places  is  terrific.  Every  ounce  of  power  was  sometimes 
necessary  to  surmount  certain  stretches,  and  blind  S-bends 
carved  from  the  solid  face  of  the  rocks  made  travelling 
a  danger  as  well  as  a  test  of  skill.  At  every  bend  and 
every  turn  some  new  panorama  would  spring  to  view 
and  farther  and  farther  away  would  fade  the  distant 
horizon  of  the  east.  Whither  the  road  led  was  impossible 
to  see.  Frowning  cliffs  and  wooded  crags  seemed  to  be 
the  only  goal  ahead.  After  half  an  hour  of  heavy  toil 
we  reach  an  opening.  There  is  a  turn  to  the  left,  a  flat 
plateau  and  a  slight  dip  down  ;  the  trail  dies  away  to 
nothing  and  a  sign  "  Royal  Gorge  "  is  announced  from  a 
bungalow  near  its  end.  The  gaunt  pine-trees  also  end, 
there  is  a  huge  gap  in  the  earth  and  the  plateau  beyond  is 
seen  a  clear  half-mile  to  the  westward.  We  clamber  over 
the  rocks  and  boulders,  carefully  and  gently,  where  the 
ground  has  suddenly  stopped,  and  peering  down  from  the 
brink  we  gaze  upon  a  tremendous  cleft  in  the  crust  of  the 
earth.  Some  3,000  feet  below  we  see  a  raging  torrent 
like  a  huge  white  snake  lashing  with  a  sullen  roar  along 
its  tortuous  path,  hemmed  in  by  vertical  walls  of  cold 
relentless  granite.  The  rushing  torrent  is  the  Arkansas, 
a  mighty  flood  although  but  a  few  miles  from  its  source, 
and  the  same  river  whose  bed  700  miles  away  towards  its 
mouth  had  afforded  such  excellent  nocturnal  accommoda- 
tion a  week  before  ! 

It  is  as  though  one  is  peering  into  the  very  bowels  of 
the  earth.     That  this  gigantic  chasm  has  been  cut  out 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE  OF  ARKANSAS   113 

by  that  river  which  now  is  over  half  a  mile  below  seems 
almost  incredible.  As  we  gaze  there  is  another  surprise 
in  store.  Like  a  tiny  plaything,  a  train  emerges  from 
a  bend  in  the  cliffs  and  with  little  infantile  puffs  of  smoke 
crawls  along  the  rails  which  one  now  sees  running  along 
the  narrow  river  bank.  Clinging  close  to  every  twist 
and  turn  the  train  proceeds.  There  is  scarcely  sufficient 
space  between  the  rugged  walls  and  the  surging  river  for 
the  single  track.  At  one  point  the  width  of  the  ledge  is 
but  10  yards  and  the  track  has  been  built  out  over  the 
water.  The  river  dashes  madly  through ;  the  engine 
sways  from  side  to  side  as  it  drags  its  heavy  load  onward. 
Down  there,  it  is  said  that  the  sky  above  is  but  a  thread 
of  light  and  the  stars  can  be  seen  at  midday  as  in  a  mine. 

One  moves  one's  gaze  and  scans  the  rugged  boulders 
that  lie  heaped  and  stacked  and  strewn  about  as  if  but  a 
push  would  suffice  to  send  them  hurtling  down  into  the 
chasm  below.  Here  and  there  are  stunted  growths  of 
sage,  cactus  and  prickly  pear,  or  a  giant  fir-tree  springs 
from  a  grassy  cleft  in  the  rocks. 

Retracing  the  trail,  we  find  ourselves  soon  descending 
the  precipitous  winds  and  turns  that  lead  back  to  Canyon 
City.  On  the  left  we  pass  "  The  Famous  Sky-line  Drive," 
which  announces  itself  by  placards  here  and  there  as 
"  The  greatest  scenic  highway  wonder  of  the  world."  But 
a  little  distance  from  here  is  also  "  the  one-day  trip  that 
bankrupts  the  English  language  "  and  such  beauty  spots 
as  are  suggested  by  the  names  "  Hell  Gate,"  "  The  Frying 
Pan,"  "  Roaring  Fork,"  "The  Devil's  Thousand-Foot 
Sliae,"  "  Cripple  Creek,"  "  The  Garden  of  the  Gods,"  and 
other  similarly  euphonious  and  onomatopoeic  appellations. 

It  would  be  tempting  to  explore  all  these  places  and  to 
see  more  of  Colorado  and  the  immense  fund  of  natural 


114      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

beauty  which  she  displays  in  endless  variety.  But 
impatience  draws  me  again  towards  Pueblo,  so  that  I 
can  once  again  strike  the  trail  that  leads  to  California. 
I  am  already  getting  anxious  to  see  the  blue  sea,  though 
yet  only  half-way  between  the  oceans  ! 

That  afternoon  as  I  paused  beneath  a  "  bowser  "  in 
Pueblo  while  Lizzie  was  filled  to  the  brim,  I  inquired  the 
condition  of  the  road  to  Trinidad,  some  100  miles  to  the 
south  on  the  Santa  Fe  Trail. 

"  Trinidad  ?  The  worst  road  in  America,  sir ! — ab- 
sol-oot-ly  the  worst  road  in  America,  sir." 

The  prospect  was  not  pleasing.  There  was  certainly 
an  element  of  interest  about  it  because  it  would  be  fascin- 
ating almost  to  see  for  oneself  exactly  what  Americans 
did  consider  a  bad  road.  My  formula  so  far  had  been 
that  when  an  American  said  a  road  was  good,  it  was  bad. 
When  he  said  it  was  bad,  it  was  damn  bad  !  But  what 
would  the  "  worst  "  be  like  ? 

As  I  sped  along,  the  sky  deepened  and  a  severe  thunder- 
shower  threatened.  Heavy  black  clouds  glowered  around 
the  mountain-tops  and  every  moment  I  expected  a  sudden 
outburst  from  the  heavens.  On  my  right  the  Rockies 
rose  higher  and  higher.  In  the  distance,  but  gradually 
approaching,  rose  Blanca  Peak,  a  dreadful,  ponderous 
giant  amongst  its  brethren,  its  gloomy  crest  piercing  the 
very  vaults  of  the  sky  and  hardly  visible  in  the  sombre 
blackness  that  so  often  hangs  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
these  western  mountain  peaks.  Now  and  again  a  streak 
of  lightning  would  flash  through  the  heavens,  and  the 
dull  thud  that  followed,  belated  and  awe-inspiring,  would 
rumble  backwards  and  forwards  along  the  valleys,  rever- 
berating from  peak  to  peak  until  finally  it  was  lost  in  the 
depths  of  the  firmament. 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE  OF  ARKANSAS   115 

On  the  left  spread  the  rolling  plains  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  like  as  the  sea  stretches  up  to  the  shores  of 
Dover  whence  the  cliffs  rise  sheer  and  stubborn.  In 
front  lay  the  road,  skirting  the  borderline  twixt  plains 
and  peaks. 

I  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  that  garage  hand 
in  Pueblo  had  been  "  pulling  one  over  me."  The  road 
was  just  splendid.  Laid  in  hard  flat  well-made  macadam, 
its  surface  was  excellent,  passing  all  understanding. 
As  I  sped  on  ever  quicker  to  avoid  the  gathering  storm, 
the  non-skid  pads  of  the  tyres  hummed  a  merry  tune. 
Could  I  be  on  the  right  road  ?  I  asked  myself  once 
again.  I  must  be,  for  in  these  parts  there  is  only  one  road 
to  be  taken.  No  others  exist.  There  must  be  a  catch 
in  it  somewhere,  I  told  myself. 

An  hour  went  by  and  still  the  thunder  rushed  around 
Blanca  Peak  the  Mighty,  now  receding  from  view.  An 
occasional  shower  just  on  the  edge  of  the  storm  would 
hasten  me  on  my  way.  Still  the  road  was  perfection 
itself,  and  still  it  fringed  the  chain  of  minor  peaks  that  runs 
from  north  to  south,  the  boundary  of  the  vast  plateau 
of  over  1,000,000  square  miles  that  includes,  in  those 
unassuming  words,  "  The  Rockies."    Another  hour  flew 

by. 

And  then  it  came,  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  sudden  and 
unexpected.  The  smooth  grey  macadam  vanished,  as 
though  the  magic  wand  had  ceased  its  power.  Instead 
lay  ahead  a  villainous  track  in  the  dark  brown  soil  of 
the  prairie,  a  track  beaten  with  sorrow  and  stricken  with 
grief,  here  battered  into  ugly  patches,  there  heaped  into 
fearful  ridges  and  seething  masses  of  mud  and  rock.  It 
had  rained.  Those  words  alone  express  a  world  of  sin 
and  shame,  when  one  speaks  of  a  trail  "  out  West."   Here 


116      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

once  more  were  the  old  agonies,  the  old  discomforts,  the 
old  tortures,  the  old  haulings,  heavings,  pushings,  joltings 
and  bruisings.  The  sky  again  became  overcast.  The 
rain  began  to  fall  tormentingly.  I  had  still  twenty-five 
miles  to  go  to  the  nearest  town.  The  sun  sank  lower  behind 
the  mountain  ridge.  The  rain  fell  faster  ;  if  I  did  not  reach 
Walsenburg  that  night  I  should  have  to  rest  among  the 
prairie-dogs  in  the  pelting  rain.  And  what  chance  was 
there  of  reaching  Walsenburg  before  dark  with  no  lights 
and  at  an  average  of  six  miles  an  hour  "  all  out,"  with 
only  a  paltry  hour  before  dusk  ? 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  that  ride.  I  feel  it 
should  not  be  described.  "  The  ride  that  bankrupts  the 
English  language,"  indeed,  thought  I.  Many  times  I 
left  the  road  altogether  and  pursued  my  course  whither 
I  listed  over  the  rough  prairie.  Strewn  with  boulders, 
rocks  and  ugly  stones,  carved  here  and  there  in  fantastic 
shapes,  with  mysterious  hollows  and  quaint  prairie-dog 
holes,  it  was  just  possible  to  scramble  along.  From  a 
distance  the  "  road  "  I  had  left  looked  better  and  I  returned 
to  it,  only  to  find  that  the  prairie  still  looked  more  enticing. 
How  I  leapt  over  the  smaller  stones  and  skipped  round  the 
larger  ones  always  intent  on  nothing  but  the  few  yards 
that  were  to  follow,  I  shall  never  completely  remember. 
Again  and  again  I  returned  to  the  road  and  endured  its 
agony  for  a  spell,  and  again  I  swerved  away  from  it,  my 
every  bone  shaking  in  its  joints  and  my  teeth  rocking  in 
their  sockets  with  the  vibration. 

Let  me  forget.  These  things  are  not  good  to  gloat 
upon !  I  remember  but  one  amusing  incident,  which 
was  but  the  forerunner  of  many  more  to  come.  I  had 
returned  to  the  road  for  a  spell.  I  came  to  a  slight  dip. 
It  was  like  a  lake  full  of  fluid  mud  where  a  wayward  stream 


THE  ROYAL  GORGE  OF  ARKANSAS   117 

had  swollen  with  the  rains  and  encroached  upon  the 
sanctity  of  the  road.  "  Not  negotiable "  was  the  un- 
spoken verdict.  Strange  to  say,  the  prairie  was  now 
fenced  off  from  the  road  boundary,  so  there  was  no  avoiding 
the  coming  struggle.  "  It's  got  to  be  done,  so  here  goes  "  ; 
slowly  I  dived  into  the  yellow  mass.  Just  half-way  the 
back  wheel  turned  to  jelly  and  seemed  to  crumple  up 
to  nothing.  With  one  big  splosh  the  whole  five  hundred- 
weight of  us  flopped  gaily  over  into  the  mire.  Pinned  down 
by  the  weight  of  the  machine,  the  mud  had  ample  time 
to  soak  through  all  my  clothing,  into  my  pockets  and  down 
my  neck.  Lizzie's  submersion  would  have  been  entire 
instead  of  partial  had  I  not  intervened.  .  .  .  After  a 
short  struggle  I  ultimately  succeeded  in  extricating  my 
right  foot  from  between  the  brake-pedal  and  the  engine, 
and  heaved  the  bulky  mass  from  its  repose.  No  sooner 
was  this  done  than  we  slithered  once  more  and  fell  over 
en  bloc  on  the  opposite  side. 

Oh,  the  joys  of  motor-cycling  in  Yankeeland  ! 

I  did  get  to  Walsenburg  that  night.  As  luck  would 
have  it,  the  two  hotels  were  full.  At  least  the  desk- 
clerks  avowed  by  the  bones  of  their  saintly  grandmothers 
that  there  wasn't  a  room  left.  Probably  they  were  moved 
to  anxiety  lest  their  worthy  name  should  be  soiled  by  this 
mud-covered   intruder ! 

I  found  a  room  after  a  long  search  at  a  fifth-rate  "  doss- 
house  "  devoid  of  furniture,  where  the  landlady  demanded 
my  money  in  advance  before  giving  me  the  key  to  my 
room. 

Thus  passed  another  day. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
IN  SOUTHERN  COLORADO 

There  is  only  one  road  in  the  States  as  bad  as  that 
from  Walsenburg  to  Trinidad.  I  refer  to  the  road  from 
Trinidad  to  Walsenburg. 

In  spite  of  that  it  was  a  good  road ;  I  got  through. 
It  took  endless  patience,  perseverance  and  a  morning  of 
time  to  do  those  fifty  weary  miles.  The  scenery  was 
strange,  almost  to  the  point  of  weirdness.  From  the 
surrounding  flatness  would  rise  sudden  plateaus,  with 
dead  vertical  sides  and  perfectly  flat  tops.  Even  the 
hills  and  mountains  where  they  occurred  (save  in  the 
distant  Rockies)  were  modelled  on  the  same  plan,  rising 
abruptly  from  the  plain  and  ascending  in  two,  three  or 
more  sudden  steps.  The  effect  was  just  as  though  the 
land  architecture  had  been  entrusted  to  some  aspiring 
cubist  or  futurist  instead  of  to  the  well-disciplined  laws 
of  Nature. 

I  do  not  profess  to  have  attained  much  learning  in  the 
science  of  geology,  and  speak,  therefore,  as  one  without 
authority.  But  it  seemed  to  me  on  many  occasions 
that  to  study  the  geology  of  the  Far  West,  the  English 
scientist  would  have  to  forget  all  he  had  ever  learnt 
about  physical  geography  and  start  all  over  again  in 
Southern  Colorado. 

At  first  I  was  puzzled  in  the  extreme  to  see  how  the 
mountains  rose  suddenly  out  of  the  great  plains,  without 

118 


IN  SOUTHERN  COLORADO  119 

any  warning  almost,  and  without  the  customary  foot- 
hills and  valleys  that  one  would  expect  to  see  clustering 
around  a  mountain  range  of  several  thousands  of  feet 
in  height.  Afterwards  I  became  accustomed  to  this 
unusual  formation,  when  I  found  that  mountains  always 
grow  that  way  in  the  Far  West,  and  particularly  farther 
on  in  New  Mexico  and  Arizona.  All  their  ranges  seemed 
like  elongated  "  Wrekins "  set  in  a  plain  of  gigantic 
dimensions. 

At  Aguilar,  half-way  on  the  road  to  Trinidad,  I  met 
the  first  really  Mexican  town.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  all  the  south-western  States  once  belonged  to 
Mexico  and  one  by  one  they,  have  been  ceded  or  bought 
or  otherwise  appropriated  until  Mexico  now  is  only  a 
shadow  of  its  former  self.  Nevertheless  a  large  pro- 
portion of  the  population  is  still  Mexican,  in  spite  of  the 
continued  influx  of  American  settlers,  and  consequently 
Mexican  is  spoken  almost  universally  in  addition  to 
English  as  the  national  tongue. 

Trinidad  styles  itself  "  The  industrial  and  commercial 
centre  of  S.E.  Colorado."  With  a  population  of  some- 
thing in  the  region  of  14,000,  it  stands  at  the  base  of 
Fisher's  Peak  (10,000  feet),  and  it  is  an  admirable 
example  of  the  inextricable  mixtures  of  Old  Mexico  and 
New  America  in  the  cities  of  the  West.  I  took  its  pic- 
ture and  left  its  shining  well-paved  streets  to  track  down 
my  old  friend,  the  Santa  Fe  Trail. 

I  got  one  mile  away  from  the  town  and  then  struck. 
The  trail  climbed  rapidly,  skirting  the  Peak  all  the  time 
in  preparation  for  the  Raton  Pass  soon  to  follow,  which 
cuts  right  over  the  Rocky  Mountains  into  New  Mexico. 
That  in  itself  was  nothing.  I  am  always  game  for  a 
good  hill-climb.     But  I  had  thought  better  of  the  Santa 


120      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

F6  Trail.  After  climbing  1,000  feet  in  just  over  a  mile, 
it  changed  into  the  most  absurd  hotch-potch  of  ruts 
and  mud-heaps  that  ever  eye  witnessed,  and  this  for 
as  far  as  one  could  see.  The  condition  of  the  road  strained 
my  credulity  to  breaking  point.  Getting  through  the 
far-off  mud-hole  at  Hume  in  Indiana  was  a  child's 
tea-party  compared  with  this.  In  half  an  hour  I  did  just 
100  yards  and  then,  after  resolutely  determining  to 
return  to  Trinidad  and  take  the  train,  I  found  that  to  go 
back  was  as  much  out  of  the  question  as  to  go  forward. 
It  simply  couldn't  be  done  single-handed.  To  turn 
Lizzie  round  would  require  nothing  less  than  a  sky-hook 
and  pulley -blocks. 

I  left  her  standing  in  a  huge  rut  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  and  reconnoitred  to  see  how  far  this  appalling 
state  of  affairs  continued. 

Fortunately  a  Flivver  appeared  round  a  bend  in  the 
road  ahead,  coming  in  the  opposite  direction.  It 
heaved  and  swayed  and  bumped  and  side-slipped  and 
hiccoughed  its  way  along.  I  watched  it  until  it  finally 
reached  the  spot  where  Lizzie  blocked  the  way.  Then 
something  had  to  be  done.  The  car  had  two  occupants, 
both  hefty-looking  men,  whom  I  enlisted  to  my  aid. 
Together  we  lifted  and  pulled  and  heaved  and  pushed 
until  the  worst  was  past,  and  then  I  struggled  on 
alone. 

Farther  into  the  mountains  we  travelled ;  higher 
and  higher  we  climbed.  In  places  the  trail  was  hewn  out 
of  the  rugged  mountain  sides,  and  except  in  a  few  places 
there  was  hardly  room  for  more  than  one  vehicle  to  pass. 
Occasionally  a  "  washout "  would  be  encountered  where 
a  mountain  stream  had  encroached  on  the  road  and 
washed  it  away  altogether.     Then  would  come  a  short 


IN  SOUTHERN  COLORADO  121 

detour  over  a  gap  in  the  bank,  with  the  grassy  slope 
strewn  with  branches  and  small  tree-trunks  to  prevent 
the  unfortunate  vehicle  sinking  in  and  thus  permanently 
blocking  all  progress  that  way. 

The  ascent  of  the  Raton  Mountains  by  the  Raton 
Pass  is  made  amongst  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery 
imaginable.  The  trail  is  only  visible  a  few  yards  ahead  and 
is  lost  in  sudden  twists  and  turns  as  gradually  the  moun- 
tain slopes  are  devoured.  On  the  right,  almost  behind, 
are  still  to  be  seen  the  famous  Spanish  Peaks  towering 
like  twins  in  solitude  above  the  rest  of  the  Sangre 
de  Cristo  range,  some  forty  miles  away.  Soon  we 
shall  be  leaving  Colorado  State  behind  us — Colorado  the 
Glorious,  the  Beautiful,  the  Great. 

It  is  said  that  "  amongst  all  the  mountain  kingdoms, 
Colorado  seems  to  stand  easily  first  in  physical  adorn- 
ment :  not  even  Switzerland  and  her  Alps  offering 
more  than  a  fair  comparison. "  Mont  Blanc,  the  highest 
peak  in  the  Alps,  is  15,784  feet  high,  while  Colorado  has 
many  peaks  lacking  little  of  this  height.  The  lowest 
depths  of  some  of  Colorado's  famous  parks  are  higher 
than  the  average  height  of  the  Alpine  Chain. 

Upward  we  climb,  amid  thickly-wooded  mountain 
tops,  round  thrilling  bends  and  tortuous  precipices  and 
over  the  rockiest  of  roads.  The  end  is  in  sight.  A 
depression  in  the  sky-line  ahead  shows  where  the  Raton 
Pass  (7,620  feet  to  be  exact)  reaches  its  highest  point 
and  gazes  forwards  into  the  heart  of  New  Mexico  and 
behind  into  the  vastnesses  of  Colorado. 

A  gradual  bend,  a  sudden  swerve,  and  then — the 
summit  is  reached.  Colorado  is  passed.  Before  us  lies 
a  great  and  thickly-wooded  valley,  broad  and  deep  and 
beautiful.     Beyond  lie  the  great  plains  of  New  Mexico, 


122      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

plains  so  vast  that  in  their  utter  defiance  of  limit  and 
dimension  they  beggar  description.  The  eye  could  not 
follow  the  great  expanse.  So  immense  were  the  dis- 
tances that  the  earth  merged  indefinitely  into  the  sky 
at  the  horizon.  Dotted  and  strewn  here  and  there 
were  hills  and  mountain  ranges  that  seemed  to  have 
sprung  up  so  suddenly  out  of  the  plateau  to  have  really 
no  connection  with  them. 

Here  I  stood  at  the  gate  of  another  world.  Before  me 
lay  a  land  of  mystery  and  romance,  a  land  of  health 
for  body  and  soul ;  a  land  of  desert  and  sage-bush,  of 
cactus  and  strange  vegetation ;  a  land  of  antiquity 
unparalleled  by  any  other  in  the  world.  Here  at  my  feet 
lay  New  Mexico  and  beyond,  Arizona,  the  two  States 
that  at  the  same  time  are  the  oldest  and  the  youngest 
in  America.  Although  only  admitted  to  the  Union 
in  1912,  their  history  dates  from  remote  ages  when  they 
were  peopled  by  a  race  unknown  to-day  but  nevertheless 
well  advanced  on  the  road  to  civilization,  a  race  that 
built  cities  while  Babylon  was  as  yet  unknown,  and  laid 
down  irrigation  systems  that  puzzle  the  engineers  of  the 
present  day. 

Arizona  and  New  Mexico,  you  are  the  pearls  of  great 
price  that  no  human  being  has  ever  yet  valued  at  your 
true  worth.  When  the  day  shall  come  that  man  can  say 
of  you,  "  I  have  seen  you  in  all  your  moods  and  have 
discovered  all  your  secrets,"  then  this  old  earth  will 
be  a  lifeless,  soulless,  aimless  globe,  its  purpose  ful- 
filled, its  course  completed. 

A  five  mile  descent  through  the  scented  pinetrees 
brought  me  to  Raton,  another  half -Mexican,  half -American 
town,  small  but  modern  and  well-arranged.  "  No  more 
4  rooming-houses '   for  me,"   I  resolved  and  turned  my 


IN  SOUTHERN  COLORADO  123 

gaze  to  the  far-distant  plains  where  the  darkness  was 
slowly  gathering. 

Even  in  New  Mexico,  one  need  never  go  without  a  meal. 
The  way  to  an  Englishman's  heart  is  through  his  stomach 
(this  applies  also  to  Americans  and  most  human  beings 
in  general !).  My  heart  was  greatly  touched  by  Raton 
in  this  manner,  and  shortly  before  dusk  I  was  speeding 
on  my  way  southwards  towards  Santa  Fe\ 

Ten  miles  out  the  trail  crossed  a  river.  It  must  have 
been  the  Canadian  River,  a  tributary  of  the  Arkansas, 
which  it  joins  several  hundred  miles  to  the  east.  The 
surrounding  country  was  desolation  and  solitude  itself. 
Half  prairie,  half  waste,  almost  desert,  it  was  a  country 
of  new  sensations.  Just  to  the  west,  from  horizon  to 
horizon,  stretched  the  gaunt  and  rugged  Sangre  de 
Cristo  range,  dark  and  threatening  always  in  their 
aspect.  Not  a  living  thing  was  in  sight,  not  even  a 
suggestion  of  life.  I  ran  Lizzie  off  the  road  to  the 
brink  of  the  river  and  laid  down  my  bed  in  the  silver 
rays  of  the  rising  moon. 

At  6.30  in  the  morning  the  sky  was  ruddy  and  the  air 
pure  with  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  dawn.  From  minute 
to  minute  the  myriad  colours  of  the  mountains  changed 
their  tints  as  the  sun  rose  higher  in  the  Mexican  sky. 
I  continued  on  my  way. 

The  road  was  broad  and  good,  but  a  surprise  was 
in  store.  After  a  few  miles  there  appeared  a  dilapidated 
signpost  where  a  bedraggled  pathway  joined  the  broad 
highway  through  a  gap  in  the  fence  which  now  ran  along- 
side. It  bore  the  legend  "  To  Santa  Fe  "  and  pointed 
through  the  fence  to  the  left.  My  first  impression  was 
that  some  small  boy  had  been  playing  pranks.  It  was 
inconceivable  that   these    two    ruts    but   a    few   inches 


124      ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

wide  in  the  coarse  green  grass  should  lead  to  Santa  Fe 
while  there,  straight  on,  was  a  good  broad  highroad 
that  led  nowhere.  It  ran  clear  ahead  and  was  lost  over 
the  brow  of  a  hill.  I  never  found  where  that  road  went. 
I  have  never  seen  it  on  any  map  and  have  made  many 
inquiries  since.  Some  travellers,  like  myself,  had  seen 
that  road  and  wavered,  but  not  one  had  gone  that  way 
and  could  enlighten  me. 

New  Mexico  is  not  a  nice  country  in  which  to  lose 
oneself.  Towns  are  very  few,  and  often  one  can  go  a 
hundred  miles  without  seeing  a  village  or  meeting  a 
soul.  So  in  spite  of  the  temptation  I  swerved  to  the 
left  and  entered  the  field  that  was  without  corn  or  pas- 
ture, following  those  two  ruts  that  cut  deep  into  the 
prairie  soil  and  were  not  visible  more  than  50  or  100 
yards  ahead  at  the  most.  In  places  the  two  ruts  had 
become  too  deep  for  further  use  and  another  pair  had 
been  started  at  the  side,  running  parallel  with  the  original 
ones.  When  these  had  worn  too  far  another  pair  had 
sprung  up,  and  in  many  places  I  counted  eight  distinct 
pairs  of  ruts  running  side  by  side  across  the  prairie,  each 
representing  a  distinct  phase  in  the  evolution  of  the 
Santa  Fe  Trail.  At  any  point,  if  one  looks  far  and  long 
enough,  one  can  find  the  original  tracks  that  centuries 
ago  were  formed  by  the  old  prairie-schooners  as  they 
journeyed  westward  across  the  plains  to  Santa  Fe. 

The  next  town  lay  far  across  the  plains  beyond  the 
horizon.  I  should  have  to  hurry  if  I  were  to  get  any 
breakfast,  but  the  riding  was  rough.  Tufts  of  coarse 
grass  and  sharp  stones  covered  the  prairie  and  held 
back  the  speed  ;  here  and  there  were  the  holes  of  prairie- 
dogs,  who  respect  no  one  in  their  choice  of  a  site.  If 
it  pleases  them  to  build  their  front-door  entrance  where 


IN  SOUTHERN  COLORADO  125 

your  favourite  inter-rut  strip  happens  to  be,  well,  they 
build  it  there.  Their  holes  are  generally  about  six  inches 
in  diameter,  the  mouth  being  funnel-shaped.  Passing 
vehicles  smash  them  in  until  the  opening  is  sometimes 
two  or  three  feet  across.  Our  friend  the  prairie-dog 
doesn't  mind  in  the  least.  He  continues  to  live  there 
in  spite  of  the  traffic  and  never  a  curse  escapes  his  lips. 
He  is  a  dear  little  animal.  One  cannot  help  loving  him. 
In  stature  these  animals  have  the  characteristic  of  both 
a  squirrel  and  a  rabbit,  and  are  about  a  foot  in  length. 
They  sit  on  their  fat  little  haunches  like  a  squirrel,  but 
have  only  a  little  bobbed  tail  like  a  rabbit.  I  believe 
they  are  the  most  friendly  rodents  in  existence,  and 
have  the  reputation  of  dwelling  in  friendship  even  with 
rattlesnakes,  who  never  harm  them !  If  you  surprise 
one  when  he  is  away  from  home,  he  watches  you, 
motionless,  to  see  if  he  has  been  seen,  if  only  a  few  feet 
from  the  intruder.  And  when  he  sees  that  you  have 
seen,  away  he  runs  with  his  head  well  down  and  his  little 
tail  well  up  until  he  reaches  his  burrow  in  the  flat  prairie. 
This  done,  he  considers  himself  safe,  turns  round,  sits 
on  his  haunches  and  stares  inquiringly  at  you.  But 
if  you  dare  come  too  close  he  disappears  in  a  second 
and  is  seen  no  more. 

One  cannot  help  laughing  at  the  antics  of  these  amusing 
little  animals  as  they  scamper  off  like  month-old  puppy 
dogs.  Ofttimes  I  have  chased  one  to  his  hole  in  the 
road  and  watched  the  anxious  look  on  his  face  as  for  a 
brief  moment  he  turns  his  head  before  flashing  into  the 
ground  below  your  front  wheel.  No  true  traveller  could 
harm  one  of  these  innocent  little  beasts  ;  they  are  often 
his  only  companions  for  hundreds  of  miles. 

Ten,  twenty,  thirty  miles  I  travelled  over  the  almost 


126      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

trackless  prairie.  Occasional  mud-pools  barred  the  way, 
but  when  the  trail  was  unfenced,  these  were  easily 
avoided.  Later  on  fences  appeared,  limiting  the  road 
from  some  neighbouring  ranch.  I  judged  I  was  getting 
near  to  Springer. 

An  old  shack  of  a  two-seater  car  hove  in  sight,  coming 
in  the  opposite  direction  ;  I  had  an  opportunity  of  study- 
ing it  in  detail  as  it  came  close  up.  Naturally  we  both 
stopped.  All  travellers  are  friends  in  the  Far  West, 
where  distances  are  great  and  people  are  few. 

"  Guess  you'd  better  follow  us  if  you  want  to  get  to 
Springer  this  week,"  essayed  the  driver. 

"  Why,  is  there  any  mud  about  ?  " 

"  Mud  ?  There's  a  hole  down  there  outside  the  town 
that  we've  been  trying  to  get  either  in  or  out  of  these 
two-and-a-half  hours.  Had  to  get  some  hosses  to  pull 
us  backwards  out  of  it  in  the  end.  Gosh,  I've  never 
seen  a  mud-hole  like  it  in  all  my  days.  We  kin  get 
around  another  way  though,  I'm  told.  Where  you 
headin'  for,  stranger  ?  " 

"  Santa  Fe\" 

"  Oh,  we  was  expectin'  to  get  to  Santa  Fe  this  mornin'. 
We're  bound  for  El  Paso,  and  must  get  there  by  to- 
morrow." 

I  reflected  that  El  Paso  was  in  Texas  on  the  Mexican 
border,  some  500  miles  to  the  south  !  "  Well,  if  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  come  along  to  Santa  Fe  with  you,  so 
then  we  can  each  help  dig  each  other  out  of  any  holes 
that  happen  along." 

"  Righto,  glad  to  have  your  company,  but  we're  not 
speed  merchants  like  I  guess  you  are  with  that  'oss 
there." 

"  Don't   make    any    mistake,    brother.     I   passed   the 


IN  SOUTHERN   COLORADO  127 

speed  craze  a  thousand  miles  back.     It  doesn't  pay." 

So  we  retraced  our  tracks,  the  car  leading.  It  was 
shorn  entirely  of  mud  wings  and  footboards  to  save  the 
wheels  becoming  clogged  or  the  running  boards  fouling 
the  road.  On  the  back  was  strapped  a  large  trunk. 
This  I  found  is  the  usual  way  of  travel  by  "  auto  "  in  the 
West.  Seldom  does  one  see  wings  on  a  car  that  is 
driven  for  any  distance  from  home.  Running  boards, 
if  present,  are  generally  of  an  improvised  variety  made 
by  planks  suspended  and  fastened  in  place  by  ropes 
around  the  body  work.  Thus  the  road  clearance  is 
increased  and  the  necessity  for  constant  cleaning  re- 
moved. By  far  the  most  popular  "  machine "  is  the 
Ford.  You  can  buy  one  cheap  and  sell  it  as  scrap  when 
the  journey,  if  a  long  one,  is  finished.  Owners  of  large 
expensive  touring  cars  very  often  have  a  Ford  as  well 
for  emergencies  and  for  long  distance  travelling.  In 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona  I  have  seen  scores  of  huge 
touring  cars  stuck  helplessly  in  the  road  and  often  aban- 
doned altogether  until  the  seasons  permit  of  their 
removal. 

I  followed  my  friends  from  Texas  along  little  pathways 
and  rough  tracks  strewn  with  boulders,  through  gaps 
in  fences,  across  fields  and  back  gardens,  all,  to  my  mind, 
at  an  alarming  pace.  It  was  only  with  difficulty  that 
I  kept  up  with  them  at  all,  owing  to  the  many  ruts  and 
rocks  and  other  obstructions  that  are  far  more  hindering 
to  two  wheels  than  four. 

Arrived  eventually  in  Springer,  I  resolved  to  postpone 
the  promised  meal  until  later  in  the  day. 

We  passed  many  ranches  and  crossed  many  mud-holes, 
some  of  alarming  width  across.  In  most  I  managed 
to  fall  off  at  least  once  and  wallowed  in  the  mud.     Some- 


128      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

times  the  car  got  so  far  ahead  as  to  be  lost  altogether, 
but  after  each  encounter  with  a  mud-lake  I  managed 
to  make  up  the  lost  time. 

Thus  passed  nearly  thirty  miles  in  which  I  realized 
the  utter  absurdity  of  two  wheels  compared  with  four. 
At  one  place  I  lost  so  much  time  that  I  began  to  give  up 
as  hopeless  the  attempt  to  keep  up  with  the  car  ahead. 
After  all,  what  was  the  use  ?  Once  out  of  the  mire, 
however,  the  trail  became  better  and  turned  into  loose 
sand  for  many  miles. 

Over  this  sand  I  made  good  progress.  It  was  now 
nearly  midday,  and  I  had  visions  of  a  meal  in  Wagon- 
mound,  a  small  village  some  twenty  miles  away. 
The  appetite  was  there  all  right,  and  as  I  trimmed  off 
mile  after  mile  at  good  speed  I  forgot  all  about  mud- 
holes  and  the  like. 

All  at  once  the  engine  burst  into  a  wild  roar  and 
Lizzie  began  to  slow  down.  What  new  trouble  was  this  ? 
A  broken  chain,  or  something  worse  ?  I  stopped  as 
quickly  as  I  could  and  proceeded  to  an  examination  of 
the  transmission.  The  chain  was  all  right,  but  the 
engine  sprocket  had  almost  come  right  off  the  driving 
shaft.     The  key  and  nut,  where  were  they  ? 

For  an  hour  I  searched  up  and  down  in  the  sand  and 
in  the  grass  at  the  roadside  for  the  missing  parts,  but 
without  success.  The  sun  was  almost  vertically  above 
and  its  rays  poured  down  unmercifully  from  a  cloud- 
less sky.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  water  or  of  any  living 
thing  in  any  direction. 

I  returned  to  another  examination  to  discover  whether 
I  could  remove  a  nut  from  any  other  part  of  the  machine 
to  replace  the  defaulter.  Not  a  nut  was  there  anywhere 
that  at  all  approached  either  the  size  or  the  thread  re- 


IN  SOUTHERN  COLORADO  129 

quired.  I  searched  once  more,  wondering  in  how  many 
days'  time  another  vehicle  would  pass  that  way,  and 
half  resolved  to  walk  the  next  twenty  miles. 

What !     Leave  Lizzie  and  walk  !    Never  I 

Another  hour  elapsed.  I  had  explored  all  the  ruts  and 
searched  every  inch  of  the  road  for  half  a  mile  back. 
I  stopped,  and  wondered  where  I  could  find  water  to 
drink.  Water  would  be  even  more  acceptable  than  the 
nut  and  key  now.  I  scanned  the  sun-baked  prairie  in 
all  directions.  From  horizon  to  horizon  there  was 
nothing  but  the  solitary  distant  mountains,  and  here 
and  there  a  lonely  parched-up  hill.  Truly  a  nice  out- 
look !  Henceforth  I  would  carry  a  water-bag  with  me. 

I  decided  to  return  to  Lizzie,  push  her  off  the  road 
and  try  walking.  But  just  to  think  of  coming  3,000 
miles  in  her  constant  company,  and  then  having  to  forsake 
her  !  "  Poor  old  Lizzie,  she's  a  dear  old  crock,"  I  mur- 
mured to  myself. 

What  was  that  ?  I  stooped  down  to  see,  and  there 
hidden  in  a  crack  in  the  hard  mud  was  the  missing  key. 
That  put  a  different  aspect  on  matters  altogether.  The 
nut  would  in  all  probability  not  be  far  away.  I  set  out 
to  explore  every  stone  and  every  rut  and  every  crack. 
Sure  enough  I  found  it  not  very  far  away. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  midsummer  air  was  whistling 
past  my  ears  once  again. 

In  ten  minutes  I  found  myself  surveying  the  biggest 
thing  in  mud-lakes  that  it  has  ever  been  my  misfortune 
to  negotiate.  The  road  was  fenced  in,  naturally. 
There  was  a  ranch  on  either  side  of  it.  The  lake  of  mud 
extended  sideways  to  the  very  borders  of  the  road,  ninety 
feet  wide.  The  distance  across  was  about  fifty  yards. 
I  estimated  that  the  mud  and  water  were  waist-deep  in 


130      ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

the  middle.  Ridges  and  furrows  of  harder  mud,  where 
passing  cars  had  churned  it  up,  in  a  desperate  attempt  to 
get  through,  led  into  the  sickly  mass  and  then  were  lost. 

"  This  requires  a  scientist,  not  a  motor-cyclist,  to 
cross,"  I  averred,  and,  propping  Lizzie  upon  her  stand, 
went  to  reconnoitre. 

I  then  created  a  precedent  in  the  art  of  crossing  mud- 
holes  by  which  I  benefited  on  all  future  occasions.  I 
was  wearing  water-tight  field  boots  which  came  up  to 
my  knees.  The  modus  operandi  was  this :  I  would 
select  a  likely-looking  rut  and  walk  along  it  as  far  as 
I  could  without  the  water  coming  over  the  top  of  my 
boots.  If  it  came  over  I  went  back  and  tried  another 
one.  This  process  was  repeated  until  I  had  a  good  idea 
how  the  land  lay.  If  I  could  possibly  get  through  without 
the  mud  reaching  my  knees,  I  knew  I  could  get  Lizzie 
through  all  right.  This  manner  of  prospecting  in  advance 
I  found  indispensable  and  at  the  same  time  perfectly 
successful. 

I  got  through  somehow,  but  prayed  that  I  should 
never  meet  another  like  that. 

I  rolled  into  Wagonmound  about  three  in  the  after- 
noon a  very  weary  and  mud-stained  traveller.  When 
I  got  there,  it  started  to  rain ;     it  naturally  would. 

There  is  but  one  restaurant  in  Wagonmound,  which 
enjoys  a  population  of  200  or  so  Mexican- Americans. 
Here  I  learnt  that  there  had  been  a  "  cloud-burst  "  near 
Santa  Fe  but  a  few  days  back  ;  also  that  the  oldest 
inhabitants  of  New  Mexico  had  never  known  so  much 
rain  to  fall  as  this  summer  ;  also  that  the  roads  ahead 
were  almost  impassable ;  also  that  at  one  place  on  the 
other  side  of  Santa  Fe  and  at  a  distance  of  fifty  miles 
between  two  towns  there  were  one  hundred  cars  stranded 


IN  SOUTHERN   COLORADO  131 

in  the  mud  and  abandoned  !  I  was  proof  against  it 
all,  however.  I  considered  that  by  now  I  could  get 
through  anywhere.  I  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  fancy 
yarns  and  sceptical  reports.  Time  was  when  I  cursed 
the  Americans  for  being  optimistic  about  their  roads. 
That  stage  had  long  since  been  passed.  Now  I  was 
proof  against  even  their  pessimisms  and  discouragements. 

The  rain  stopped  and  I  proceeded  once  more,  deter- 
mined to  make  a  big  effort  to  reach  Santa  Fe  that  night, 
though  still  ninety  miles  away. 

At  Wagonmound  there  was  a  station  of  the  Santa  Fe 
Railway,  which  for  a  good  distance  ran  close  to  the  trail. 
I  inquired  at  the  "  Depot "  what  were  the  chances  of 
travelling  on  the  track.  I  did  not  want  to  try  conclusions 
with  any  trans-continental  trains  if  avoidable. 

"  What !  Ride  in  the  track  !  "  ejaculated  the  line- 
master.     "  You  can't  do  that !  " 

"  Oh,  I  guess  I  can  if  I'm  careful,"  was  my  response. 

44  Waal,  I  jest  guess  you  can't,  my  friend,"  was  his 
rejoinder.  "  I'll  have  you  arrested  if  you  try  to  work 
that  stunt." 

Argument  was  useless.  44  D'ye  think  I  want  to  damage 
your  bloomin'  old  track  ?  "  I  asked  him  heatedly  after 
much  discussion.  We  settled  the  matter  finally  by  my 
tendering  the  information  that  I  would  ride  up  and 
down  his  track  all  day  long  if  I  wanted  to  (not  much  fear 
of  such  a  desire  developing  !)  and  if  he  liked  he  could 
44  write  to  John  Bull  about  it "  ! 

The  humour  of  the  situation  was  lost  upon  him. 

44  You'll  get  shot,"  was  his  reply,  whereat  we  parted. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
NEW  MEXICO 

I  set  out  from  Wagonmound  with  a  light  heart  and  a 
heavy  stomach. 

The  road  ran  parallel  with  the  rail  for  a  mile,  then 
crossed  over  by  a  level  crossing  and  continued  parallel 
on  the  other  side.  I  did  not  get  far.  No  doubt  there 
had  been  unusual  rain  ;  great  fields  were  now  lakes  with 
the  grass  bottom  not  always  visible ;  little  streams, 
normally  no  more  than  the  size  of  a  small  spring,  were 
now  swollen  rivers.  These  crossed  the  road  in  places. 
The  road  was  fenced  in.    And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

After  precisely  half  an  hour  I  found  myself  just  three 
miles  advanced,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  hopeless  chaos 
of  sun-dried  emaciated  mud.  I  had  "  explored  every 
avenue  "  of  the  road,  but  found  none  possible  of  negotia- 
tion. Bit  by  bit  I  dragged  Lizzie  back  and  returned 
to  the  level-crossing.  Come  what  may  I  would  try 
the  track.  Even  if  the  sleepers  shook  my  very  bones 
to  powder  it  would  be  better  than  eternally  forging 
through  the  mud  of  New  Mexico. 

On  each  side  of  the  road  where  it  crossed  the  rails 
the  track  was  guarded  by  a  satanic  device  in  the  form 
of  spikes  and  knife-edges  skilfully  arranged  and  extending 
to  a  distance  of  several  yards.  The  function  of  these 
was  evidently  to  prevent  cattle  and  other  animals  straying 
on  the   line.     Traversing  these   was   no    easy   task.     If 

132 


NEW   MEXICO  133 

one  did  not  ride  on  top  of  the  spikes,  one's  tyres  wedged 
in  between  the  knives.  Once  past,  the  rest  seemed 
easy.  But  things  are  not  what  they  seem,  especially 
on  railroad  tracks.  The  sleepers  were  not  ballasted 
and  were  anything  but  level.  There  was  no  room  outside 
the  track,  for  it  was  steeply  banked,  and  the  sleepers 
projected  beyond  the  rails  into  space.  At  every  few 
hundred  yards  the  track  ran  over  a  brick  bridge  spanning 
a  bog  or  a  stream.  The  bridge  was  just  the  width  of 
the  rails  apart.  But  when  it  came  to  riding — ugh ! 
As  every  sleeper  was  passed,  the  wheels  fell  momentarily 
into  the  intervening  space  between  it  and  the  next,  and 
a  series  of  sudden,  sharp  shocks  was  hammered  through 
Lizzie's  poor  frame  as  each  sleeper  in  turn  was  struck 
by  the  front  wheel.  The  faster  I  went  the  quicker  and 
smaller  were  the  shocks,  and  above  a  certain  speed  it  was 
quite  tolerable  running. 

I  was  just  getting  up  a  comfortable  speed  when  I 
imagined  I  heard  the  whistle  of  a  locomotive  behind. 
This  was  discouraging  and  certainly  unexpected.  I 
stopped  quickly  and  looked  back.  Sure  enough  there 
was  a  train  coming,  but  it  was  easily  half  a  mile  away. 
To  go  forward  in  the  hope  of  out-pacing  it  would  be 
useless.  There  was  not  even  room  to  get  off  the  track, 
for  once  I  got  down  the  steep  bank,  I  knew  it  would  be 
next  to  impossible  to  get  back  again,  or  to  get  anywhere, 
for  that  matter. 

Neither  was  there  room  to  turn  round  and  go  back. 

More  than  ever  before  did  it  appear  to  me  that  discretion 
was  better  than  valour. 

So  I  commenced  to  push  Lizzie  backwards  to  the  level 
crossing,  prepared  to  roll  sideways  over  the  bank  if  I 
found  the  train  got  there  first. 


134      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

I  was  just  beginning  to  feel  sure  about  winning  the 
race,  and  judged  that  I  should  get  there  with  a  good 
hundred  yards  to  spare.  I  reached  the  crossing,  but 
as  naturally  as  one  would  expect,  the  back  wheel  wedged 
tight  between  the  knives  of  the  cow-guard. 

Would  she  budge  ?    No. 

As  I  struggled  and  heaved  (I  could  not  look  on  and  see 
Lizzie  go  west  in  such  an  absurd  fashion),  the  "  Cali- 
fornia Limited "  bore  down  upon  me.  Fortunately 
American  trains  do  not  always  go  so  fast  as  they  might ; 
at  any  rate,  not  so  fast  as  one  thinks  they  should  when 
one  is  travelling  in  them. 

With  a  final  desperate  lunge,  Lizzie  yielded  to  my 
efforts  and  came  unstuck.  No  time  was  lost  in  getting 
out  of  the  way.  Fifteen  seconds  afterwards  the  train 
rolled  by  at  a  modest  thirty.  She  had  evidently  not  got 
properly   under   way   since   her   stop   at   Wagonmound. 

I  returned  to  the  mud-hole  like  a  smacked  puppy  with 
its  tail  between  its  legs,  and  reflected  on  what  might 
have  been. 

But  it  was  no  use.     I  stuck  again. 

This  time  I  was  well  armed  with  refreshments.  I 
had  bought  six  bottles  of  a  ginger-pop  concoction  from 
the  last  village.  I  carried  one  in  each  pocket  and  the 
other  two  as  reserves,  only  to  be  used  in  case  of  great 
emergency,  enveloped  in  the  blanket  strapped  on  the 
carrier. 

I  drank  one  bottle  at  the  close  of  every  engagement 
with  the  road.  But  after  an  hour  I  was  still  no  farther 
ahead.  I  reclined  on  the  bank  and  waited  for  some- 
thing to  turn  up. 

Fact  revealed  itself  stranger  than  fiction  once  more. 
Something   turned   up   very   speedily.     It   came   in   the 


NEW  MEXICO  135 

form  of  a  "  Marmon  "  touring  car,  bearing  a  Calif ornian 
number-plate.  I  had  taken  the  precaution,  of  course, 
to  leave  Lizzie  in  the  right  spot,  so  that  no  disinclined 
passer-by  could  get  through  if  he  wanted  to.  After 
all,  one  musn't  rely  on  everyone  playing  the  Good 
Samaritan. 

The  two  occupants  of  the  car  were  courtesy  itself. 
They  not  only  assisted  me  in  lifting  Lizzie  over  the  piece 
de  resistance,  but  also  showed  considerable  interest  in 
me.  Out  here,  where  friendship  between  motorists  is 
much  more  marked  (almost  as  a  matter  of  necessity), 
there  is  seldom  any  need  for  anxiety,  and  it  is  remark- 
able how  potent  a  thing  is  this  roadside  courtesy. 
Practically  every  town  I  stopped  at  afterwards  had 
heard  of  the  strange  traveller  who  was  coming  along 
on  a  10  h.p.  motor-cycle,  and  awaited  my  arrival  with 
interest. 

"  Had  a  fella  in  here  on  his  way  to  California  told 
us  about  you,"  said  one  garage  hand,  in  the  heart  of 
Arizona.     "  Said  you'd  be  here  sooner  or  later." 

"  Oh  yes  ?     And  how  long  ago  was  that  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  Um — guess  well  over  a  couple  of  weeks  ago."  (The 
word   "  fortnight "  is  unknown  in  America.) 

Such  little  incidents  happened  many  times,  and  these, 
coupled  with  the  amazing  reports  that  had  been  cir- 
culated by  the  Western  Press  about  me  since  that  in- 
flammatory article  on  "  Roads,"  etc.,  in  the  Kansas  City 
Star,  had  generally  managed  to  achieve  for  me  quite 
a  notorious  reputation  in  most  towns  long  before  I  ever 
rattled  into  their  midst. 

It  was  now  nearly  fifty  miles  to  the  next  town.  I 
pushed  ahead  as  fast  as  I  could  to  reach  it  before  dark. 
Progress,  however,  was  slow.     In  places  where  the  road 


136      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

was  not  fenced,  I  rode  upon  the  rocky  prairie.  It  was, 
for  the  most  part,  a  considerable  improvement,  and  one 
could  ride  around  the  bogs  and  mud-holes  instead  of 
crossing  them. 

Never  had  I  been  in  such  wild  and  barren  country. 
It  was  quite  beyond  hope  of  cultivation  in  most  places, 
being  strewn  with  rough  stones,  rocks,  and  boulders, 
and  only  sparsely  covered  with  meagre-looking  grass 
which,  in  its  efforts  to  keep  alive  at  all,  had  to  arrange 
itself  in  small  tufts  dotted  here  and  there  in  order  to 
derive  the  maximum  nutriment  from  the  scanty,  unfruitful 
soil.  The  country  itself  changed  from  flat  to  hilly  as 
the  Sangre  de  Cristo  range  once  more  drew  nearer, 
When  it  became  hilly,  great  rocks  projected  through 
the  surface  of  the  trail,  which  seldom  or  never  swerved 
to  avoid  them. 

The  trail  itself  resolved  itself  later  on  into  no  more 
than  a  mere  medley  of  ruts  and  grass-bare  strips  of  all 
widths,  running  and  crossing  each  other  at  all  angles 
and  in  all  directions.  There  was  no  time  to  look  around 
and  enjoy  the  wild  scenery  or  study  the  ever-changing 
sky-line ;  it  was  "  eyes  on  the  road  "  all  the  time.  It 
was  quite  impossible  to  dodge  more  than  a  fraction  of 
the  rocks  and  boulders,  and  one  was  always  abruptly 
brought  back  to  stern  reality,  if  for  an  instant  one's 
thoughts  diverged  to  other  things,  by  a  sudden  shock 
from  one's  front  wheel,  or  a  sickening  crash  on  the  bottom 
or  side  of  the  crank-case. 

It  was  a  slow  job,  and  travelling  was  more  in  the  line 
of  a  mountain  goat  than  a  motor-cycle.  I  was  ultimately 
satisfied  if  I  could  average  eight  or  ten  miles  an  hour. 

After  thirty  miles  of  this,  I  was  surprised  to  discern 
ahead  something  which  looked  like  a  caravan.     There 


NEW  MEXICO  137 

were  two  vehicles,  apparently  joined  together,  but  with 
no  visible  means  of  locomotion.  Nevertheless  they  moved 
slowly.  I  judged  that  some  enthusiast  of  the  "  See 
America  first "  order  had  converted  a  Ford  into  a 
travelling  home,  or  maybe  a  wandering  tribe  of  gipsies 
had  become  sufficiently  modernized  to  appreciate  the 
benefits  of  auto  v.  horse  transport. 

I  caught  them  up  and  stopped  to  have  a  chat.  Both 
sides  seemed  curious  at  the  other's  means  of  locomotion, 
and  wanted  to  know  the  why  and  the  wherefore. 

The  team,  I  found,  consisted  as  I  had  surmised  of  a 
Ford  chassis,  on  which  had  been  skilfully  built  a  caravan 
body.  Behind  was  a  trailer,  on  two  wheels,  and  of  con- 
struction similar  to,  but  smaller  than,  the  other.  Evidently 
one  was  the  parlour,  kitchen,  and  store-room,  and  the 
other  the  bedroom. 

The  driver  stopped  his  engine  and  jumped  down. 

"Good  day,   sir;  how  do?"  I  inquired. 

"  Very  fit,  thanks  ;  you  the  same  ?  How  in  Heavens'n 
earth  d'you  manage  to  get  along  on  that  ?  " 

"  Mostly  by  plenty  of  bad  language  and  good  driving," 
I  returned.  "And  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  in 
this   benighted   place   with   that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  goin'  west.  ..." 

M  Shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  at  that !  " 

"  I'm  bound  for  somewhere  in  Arizona.  Come  from 
Chicago.  Fed  up  with  the  life  there,  so  I'm  out  for  a  change. 
Looking  for  a  likely  spot  to  settle  down  where  there's 
plenty  of  fresh  air." 

"  What !  You've  come  all  the  way  from  Chicago  on 
that  ? "    I    inquired    incredulously. 

"  Sure  enough." 

"  How    long    has    it    taken   you  ? "   (I    was    already 


138      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

becoming  sufficiently  Americanized,  the  reader  will 
observe.) 

"  Best  part  of  three  months." 

"  How  many  with  you  ? 

"  Wife  and  two  children.     Here  they  are." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  luck,  brother ;  but  it  doesn't 
strike  me  that  the  roads  are  ideal  from  a  furniture- 
removing  point  of  view,  so  to  speak." 

"  Roads  ?  "  (Here  he  waxed  furious :  I  had  touched 
a  sore  spot.)  "  Don't  talk  to  me  about  roads.  The 
gor-dem  Government  oughta  a'  bin  shot  that  provided 
roads  like  this.  Just  think  that  across  a  civilized  country 
like  America  there  isn't  a  dem  road  fit  to  drive  a  cow 
on  to  !  " 

"  Ah,  I've  thought  that  way  myself ;  but  there's  a 
fallacy  in  the  observation,   old  man." 

"  What  d'ya  mean  ?  " 

"  Just  this — who  told  you  America  was  a  civilized 
country  ?  " 

Long  pause. 

"  Aye,  you've  said  it,"  and  he  relapsed  into  a  stony 
silence. 

I  bade  him  farewell,  and  left  him  scrambling  slowly 
over  the  rocks  and  mounds,  while  the  caravan  rocked 
from  side  to  side  and  jerked  its  weary  way  along.  I 
reflected  also  that,  after  all,  that  was  the  way  to  see  the 
country. 

At  dark  I  was  but  a  few  miles  from  Las  Vegas.  Once, 
again  heavy  clouds  rolled  over  the  sky.  Rain  began  to 
fall.  My  spirits  did  likewise.  I  wondered  whether  it 
was  a  habit.  But  what  cared  I  for  rain  or  mud  ?  By 
now  surely  I  was  proof  against  them.  I  struggled  on. 
And  ultimately  I  got  there. 


NEW  MEXICO  139 

Las  Vegas  is  a  fair-sized  town.  In  order  of  merit  it 
is  the  second  largest  in  New  Mexico.  The  first  is 
Albuquerque  and  the  third  is  the  capital,  Santa  Fe. 
There  are  no  more  towns  of  any  size  in  New  Mexico. 
Including  native  Indian  villages  there  are,  in  addition, 
in  the  whole  of  New  Mexico,  some  seventy  or  eighty 
small  towns  and  very  small  villages,  making  the  total 
population  of  the  whole  State  about  50,000.  When 
it  is  understood  that  New  Mexico  is  about  four  times 
the  area  of  England,  the  reader  will  be  able  to  form  an 
idea  of  the  sparsity  of  its  people. 

Now  most  people  would  have  predicted  that  im- 
mediately on  my  arrival  in  Las  Vegas  I  would  have 
sought  out  the  best  hotel  and  consumed  a  big  square 
meal.  I  did  no  such  thing.  I  went  to  the  movies 
instead. 

Then  I  returned  and  went  to  bed,  half  wondering 
whether  to  standardize  the  one-meal-per-day  experiment 
for  future  requirements. 

In  the  morning  it  was  not  raining,  but  all  the  time 
until  midday  it  showed  signs  of  just  commencing. 

At  midday  I  became  impatient  and  started  out  for 
Santa  Fe.  I  had  just  left  the  outskirts  of  the  town  when 
it  did  finally  and  irrevocably  decide  to  rain  after  all. 
I  continued  for  five  miles,  when  a  Ford  car  hove  in  sight. 
"  Here  goes  for  a  chat  and  some  straight  dope  on  the 
subject  of  roads  to  come,"  said  I  to  myself  and  stopped. 
The  Ford  stopped  also.  It  had  two  occupants,  a  man 
and  his  wife.  They  both  looked  bored,  so  we  made  a 
merry  party. 

"  What's  the  road  like  back  there  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Mighty  rough — mighty  rough.  They  get  better  the 
further  east  we  come." 


140      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  be  able  to  get  through  to  the 
coast  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  mighty  hard  riding,  but  I  guess  you  ought 
to  be  able  to  get  through.  Oh,  but  stay  a  minute,  there's 
a  big  wash-out  before  you  get  to  Santa  F6 — big  stone 
bridge  washed  clean  away  with  the  floods,  not  a  trace 
of  it  left.  I  don't  know  much  about  motor-cycles,  but 
I  guess  you  could  get  across  the  river  all  right.  You'll 
want  to  be  careful  though.  There  was  a  whole  cartload 
of  people  washed  down  the  river  last  week,  so  they  say ; 
all  of  'em  went  west,  horse  and  cart  and  all !  " 

"  Ah  well,  that'll  add  a  bit  of  excitement  to  the  trip. 
I'm  good  at  crossing  rivers.'? 

44  Ugh  !  Guess  you'll  not  be  looking  out  for  any  excite- 
ment time  you've  gotten  to  Santa  F6 !  " 

I  was  particularly  interested  in  these  people's  domestic 
arrangements.  Without  a  doubt  I  have  never  seen  an 
ordinary  touring  car,  much  less  a  Ford,  equipped  and 
arranged  in  such  excellent  style.  They  carried  with  them 
a  portable  stove  on  which  could  be  cooked  any  dish  they 
required.  They  carried  ample  supplies  of  vegetables, 
fruits,  eggs,  butter,  bacon,  bread  and  tinned  goods,  and 
even  tanks  of  fresh  water  for  culinary  and  drinking 
purposes.  This  is  certainly  a  wise  precaution,  because 
it  is  never  safe  to  drink  water  from  even  the  most  tempting 
of  rivers  in  the  West.  Furthermore,  they  had  two 
collapsible  beds,  which  could  be  laid  upon  the  top  of 
the  seats  from  back  to  front,  and  which  were  fully  equipped 
with  feather  mattresses  and  blankets !  One  would 
think  that  all  this  paraphernalia  would  have  taken  up 
an  enormous  amount  of  room.  Not  so.  Apart  from  the 
fact  that  the  back  part  of  the  car  was  neatly  covered  in, 
there  was  not  the  slightest  sign  that  the  car  was  anything 


NEW  MEXICO  141 

but  an  ordinary  Ford  with  a  lot  of  luggage  in  the  back. 

I  bade  them  farewell  only  on  the  strict  condition  that 
if  the  rain  continued  I  should  return  and  share  their 
supper.  They  would  not  be  far  away,  they  told  me. 
The  plat  du  jour  was  salmon  and  Mayonnaise  sauce,  above 
all  things  ! 

Still,  it  is  a  habit  of  mine  never  to  go  back,  however 
tempting  the  circumstances.  At  intervals  I  passed  a 
few  Mexicans  driving  teams  of  horses,  and  once  more 
I  was  alone  with  Lizzie.  As  a  compensation  for  the 
drizzling  rain,  the  scenery  was  perfect.  The  trail  had 
now  swerved  into  rugged,  mountainous  scenery,  thickly 
wooded,  wild  and  picturesque  in  the  extreme.  It  was 
almost  ridiculous  to  watch  how  the  narrow  trail  dodged 
in  and  out  of  the  trees,  cutting  across  small  forests  of 
cedar,  aspen,  and  pine,  curving  to  right  and  left  round 
some  awkward  prominence,  now  dipping  down  suddenly 
into  a  little  valley,  and  then  darting  up  over  hilly  slopes 
all  strewn  with  loose  rocks  and  broken  with  jutting 
crags. 

We  were  approaching  the  Pecos,  the  haunts  of  the 
bear  and  mountain-lion,  and  the  headquarters  of  numerous 
tourists  and  campers  attracted  thither  by  the  fine  fishing, 
shooting,  riding,  and  mountain-climbing. 

Occasionally,  as  one  took  a  sudden  swerve  around 
the  face  of  a  projecting  hill,  one  would  see,  away  there 
in  the  valley  beyond,  a  Mexican  village  set  back  from  the 
road,  and  would  marvel  at  the  strange  sight  of  the  square 
mud  buildings,  congregated  together  in  such  unique 
and  regular  formation.  The  brick-red  hue  of  the  houses 
was  so  near  to  that  of  the  surrounding  country  as  almost 
to  hide  the  village  altogether  from  view,  even  though 
it  was  right  "  under  one's  nose." 


142      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

My  first  impression  of  a  Mexican  village  was  one  of 
amazement.  To  think  that  several  hundred  people 
can  live  together  in  those  single-storied  mud  huts  in 
peace  and  comfort,  with  ne'er  a  sheet  of  glass  in  the 
windows  and  seldom  a  door  within  the  door-posts — 
well,  it  was  absurd  !  But  my  second  impression  absorbed 
the  first  entirely,  and  was  one  of  appreciation  for  the 
primitive  beauty  of  these  native  dwellings.  It  is  a  beauty 
that  lingers  in  one's  memory,  a  beauty  that  lies  in  natural 
flowing  forms,  defying  the  unrelenting  sharp  corners  of 
modern  architecture.  And  I  have  seen  many  M  adobe  " 
houses  in  New  Mexico  that  would  be  far  more  comfortable 
to  live  in  than  many  that  have  sheltered  my  bones  in 
Europe  ! 

I  was  meditating  thus  when  the  sound  of  rushing  waters 
reached  my  ears.  Sure  enough,  the  road  ended  abruptly, 
like  a  cliff,  and  continued  in  like  fashion  on  the  opposite 
side.  Between,  and  several  feet  below,  swirled  the  River 
Pecos.  It  was  still  swollen  with  rain  from  the  mountains, 
although  it  had  evidently  been  much  higher  recently. 

Not  a  soul  was  about.  There  was  a  solitary  Mexican 
house  on  a  hill  to  one  side.  I  contemplated  the  river 
in  silence,  save  for  the  sound  of  its  waters  as  they  swirled 
over  the  rocky  bed  and  now  and  then  dislodged  a  weighty 
boulder. 

To  the  right  two  rickety  planks  had  been  erected, 
supported  partly  by  ropes  and  partly  by  vertical  props 
from  rocks  in  the  river,  for  pedestrians  to  cross.  I 
wondered  what  pedestrian  would  find  himself  in  these 
parts  ! 

To  the  left,  a  detour  had  somehow  been  dug  at  an  angle 
of  about  20  degrees  to  the  water's  edge.  In  the  opposite 
bank  a  similar  detour  had  been  dug,  but  at  an  angle  of 


NEW  MEXICO  143 

about  30  degrees.  Evidently  several  cars  had  already 
passed  through  the  river  that  way.  But  a  car  is  not 
a  motor-cycle.  I  meditated.  A  car  on  four  wheels 
could  not  only  hold  its  own  better  in  the  middle  of  the 
torrent,  but  could  also  get  up  the  opposite  bank  easier. 
One  thing  was  quite  certain — even  if  I  got  through  the 
river  all  right,  it  would  require  a  superhuman  effort  to 
push  the  machine  up  the  steep,  greasy  incline  on  the 
opposite  side. 

I  reconnoitred  up  and  down  the  river  bank  in  the  hope 
of  finding  a  better  place  to  cross,  but  the  quest  was  in 
vain.  The  banks  grew  steeper  and  higher  and  the  river- 
bed wider  and  rougher  than  ever.  I  returned  to  Lizzie 
and  said  a  prayer  for  her.  Then  I  took  off  my  tunic 
and  removed  the  bag  and  blanket  from  the  carrier. 

I  judged  that  it  would  be  expedient  to  rely  upon 
momentum  as  far  as  possible,  as  the  engine  would  cer- 
tainly not  run  for  long  under  water,  so,  starting  the  engine 
once  more,  I  put  in  the  bottom  gear  and  charged  down 
the  greasy  slope  into  the  river. 

There  was  a  tremendous  hiss,  and  a  cloud  of  steam 
went  heavenwards.  The  engine  stopped  long  before 
I  reached  the  middle,  and  the  smooth  nature  of  the  loose 
rocks  that  formed  the  river-bed  was  treacherous  for  two 
wheels.  There  was  nothing  for  it  when  the  engine  stopped 
but  to  dismount  quickly  and  push.  When  I  reached 
the  middle,  the  water  was  up  to  my  waist,  and  it  took 
most  of  my  strength  to  keep  the  machine  upright  and 
hold  it  against  the  force  of  the  river,  which  swirled  around 
the  cylinders  and  washed  up  against  the  tank.  I  managed 
to  avoid  being  washed  away,  however,  thanks  to  the 
great  weight  of  the  machine,  and  got  her  to  the  opposite 
bank. 


144      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

It  was  a  relief  to  be  out  of  the  water,  but  the  task  still 
remained  of  climbing  up  the  bank.  I  exerted  all  my 
strength,  but  the  slope  was  so  greasy  that  neither  my 
feet  nor  the  wheels  would  grip  on  anything.  Twice 
or  thrice  I  got  it  half-way  up,  only  to  slither  down  to 
the  river  again  tout  ensemble.  Then  I  tried  the  expedient 
of  wedging  a  huge  stone  under  the  back  wheel  and  pushing 
an  inch  or  two  at  a  time.  But  it  was  no  use.  The 
grease  was  impossible.  I  laboured  with  it  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

I  was  just  on  the  point  of  giving  it  up  after  we  had 
all  slid  down  to  the  bottom  once  again,  when  a  huge 
Mexican  appeared  on  the  scene.  He  was  evidently  the 
owner  of  the  house  on  the  opposite  bank,  and  looked 
hefty  enough  to  lift  a  tram. 

We  pushed  with  our  united  effort.  We  slipped  and 
slithered  and  wallowed  about,  but  we  got  to  the  top. 
I  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  rewarded  the  Mexican 
liberally,  and  walked  across  the  plank  to  bring  my  tunic 
and  luggage. 

Lizzie  had  never  been  so  clean  since  the  day  she  came 
out  of  the  crate.  Every  speck  of  mud  and  dirt  had  been 
washed  clean  away,  and  her  pristine  beauty  was  revealed 
once  again.  It  was  an  hour's  task  to  dry  the  carburettor 
and  the  magneto  and  get  the  engine  running.  It  was 
getting  dark  when  I  got  going  again.  The  rain  had 
stopped,  but  the  mud  was  terrible.  Every  half-mile 
I  had  to  stop  and  poke  it  out  of  the  mud-guards  with  a 
screwdriver. 

Eventually,  just  before  dark,  I  reached  the  tiny 
Mexican  village  of  Pecos,  called  after  the  river  in  the 
locality.  It  consisted  mainly  of  a  general  store  and 
"  rooming-house  "  for  the  benefit  of  stranded  travellers. 


NEW  MEXICO  145 

A  rooming-house,  by  the  way,  is  a  kind  of  boarding-house 
but  with  no  accommodation  for  meals. 

At  Pecos  I  was  surprised  to  see  an  Indian  motor-cycle 
and  side-car  "  parked  "  on  a  strip  of  green,  which  in 
generations  to  come  would  be  the  plaza  or  square. 
Examination  revealed  it  to  be  a  most  remarkable 
machine.  It  was  equipped  with  tool-boxes  galore  at 
every  available  place  and,  strange  to  remark,  there  was  a 
small  emery  wheel  mounted  skilfully  on  the  top  tube  and 
driven  by  a  round  belt  from  a  pulley  on  the  engine  shaft. 
There  was  also  a  small  hand-vice  clipped  to  the  frame, 
and  numerous  other  small  tools  and  fitments,  which, 
to  say  the  least,  were  not  usually  found  in  the  equipment 
of  a  motor-cycle. 

"  Well,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  if  all  this  paraphernalia 
is  required  to  get  a  motor-cycle  across  to  the  coast,  I'm 
in  for  a  rough  time." 

But  I  was  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  the  property  of 
a  tinsmith  who,  out  for  a  holiday,  combined  business  with 
pleasure,  and  repaired  people's  tanks  and  pots  and  pans 
wherever  he  went !  In  this  way  he  not  only  defrayed 
his  travelling  expenses,  but  made  a  far  better  income 
than  he  used  to  get  in  his  home-town  in  Ohio. 

He  was  a  tall,  burly-looking  chap,  and  greeted  me 
with  effusion.  In  like  manner  did  I  welcome  him. 
The  sight  of  another  motor-cyclist  removed  my  worst 
apprehensions. 

"  Strike  me  pink ! "  quoth  I,  "I  thought  I  was  the 
only  madman  in  this  part  of  the  world  !  " 

He  glanced  at  my  number-plate. 

"  Gee,  brother,  put  it  right  there.  I  wuz  beginnin' 
to  think  I'd  never  see  another  motorsickle  agin ;  you 
goin'  to  the  coast  ?  " 

L 


146      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

"  That's  where  I'm  heading  for,  but  of  late  I'm  not 
so  sure  about  getting  there  as  I  was  when  I  left  New 
York." 

"  Oh,  boy,  yew'll  git  there  all  right  if  yew've  come 
this  far — I  said  it ;  but  say,  there's  some  smart  bits 
o'  travellin'  to  do  ahead  on  yer !  "  * 

"  What  ?     Is  it  worse  than  what  I've  passed  ?  " 

"  Waal,  I've  bin  there  an'  got  back — travellin'  with 
the  missus  here — an'  I  tell  you,  the  road  gets  better 
the  further  east  I  come.  And  what's  more'n  that,  bro- 
ther, yew've  got  some  mighty  warm  times  ahead  before 
you  see  California — like  goin'  through  Hell,  it  is.  Wait 
till  you  find  yourself  in  the  middle  o'  the  Mohave  Desert 
with  the  sun  beatin'  down  at  130  in  the  shade,  and  no 
shade — no  nothin'  except  prickly  pears  and  funny- 
lookin'  cactuses  and  a  bit  of  sage-bush  here  and  there. 
Say,  boy,  wait  till  you  see  piles  o'  bones  and  carcasses 
by  the  score  lyin'  at  the  side  o'  the  road,  an'  yew'll  begin 
to  think  it's  warm,  all  right.  Whatever  you  do,  boy, 
take  water  with  yer.     Yew'll  drink  gallons  of  it !  " 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here,  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

44  Nigh  on  a  couple  o'  weeks,  brother.  We've  bin  waitin' 
fer  the  rain  to  clear  off." 

Truly  a  bright  prospect. 

I  slept  well  that  night,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  my 
day's  mileage  was  only  thirty,  and  awoke  to  find  the  sky 
clear  and  promising. 

I  spent  the  morning  in  tuning  Lizzie  and  making 
minor  adjustments  and  preparation.  I  commissioned 
my  tinsmith  friend  to  make  me  a  new  accumulator  box, 
my  own  having  become  entirely  disintegrated  with  the 
vibration.  For  1,000  miles  it  had  been  held  together 
with  straps  fastened  tightly  round  it  to  the  frame. 


NEW  MEXICO  147 

The  distance  to  Santa  Fe  was  only  twenty-five  miles, 
so  I  judged  I  should  be  able  to  reach  it  that  day. 

Those  twenty-five  miles  took  four  hours.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  those  four  hours.  They  were  filled 
to  the  brim  with  mud,  rain,  wash-outs,  and  bridgeless 
rivers.  In  many  places  there  were  great  "  washes " 
of  sand  brought  down  from  the  hillsides  that  nearly 
completely  obliterated  the  trail  as  it  struggled  across 
the  mountains. 

It  was  a  very  weary  motor-cyclist  indeed  who  rattled 
into  Santa  Fe  at  5.30  that  afternoon.  And  that  motor- 
cyclist had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  few  days' 
rest  before  anything  else  happened  his  way. 

With  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  I  leant  Lizzie  up  against 
the  pavement  opposite  the  "  Montezuma  Hotel."  With 
heavy,  aching  limbs  and  sodden,  mud-stained  clothes, 
I  walked  towards  the  door. 

It  opened  ahead  of  me. 

"  Ah !  how  do  you  do,  Captain  Shepherd  ?  We've  been 
expecting  you  for  over  a  week.  Come  right  in.  We 
know  all  about  you.  Here,  James,  take  Captain 
Shepherd  up  to  his  room  at  once.  No,  don't  bother 
to  say  anything.     Just  go  and  have  a  good  hot  bath." 

It  was  the  voice  of  an  angel  that  spoke ! 


CHAPTER  XV 
SANTA  Ffi 

Santa  F6  is  the  most  delightful  of  places.  It  has 
a  charm  all  its  own.  It  is  small,  quaint,  and  intensely 
old.  It  is  far  removed  from  other  American  towns — 
just  as  far  as  west  is  from  east.  It  represents  the 
quintessence  of  New  Mexico,  and  at  the  same  time — 
so  it  is  alleged — sets  the  standard  of  art  in  America.} 

The  first  words  of  a  mediocre  Easterner  when  he  enters 
the  plaza  of  Santa  F^  are  "  Heavens'n  earth  !  what  kind 
of  a  hole  have  I  struck  now  ?  "  But  if  he  has  a  soul 
underlying  that  eastern  veneer  of  his,  if  he  has  an 
appreciation  for  art  and  beauty  in  architecture  unimpaired 
by  familiarity  with  gigantic  skyscrapers,  he  will  repent 
those  words.  His  disdainful  grin  as  he  first  catches 
sight  of  the  Art  Museum  and  sees  an  edifice  of  mud  with 
ne'er  a  corner  that  could  be  called  sharp,  will  fade  slowly 
from  his  face,  and  once  he  has  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  the  "  sudden  uniqueness  "  of  everything,  his  look  will 
turn  to  one  of  wonder  and  admiration. 

Santa  Fe  is  small.  It  contains  no  more  than  6,000 
inhabitants — a  curious  mixture  of  Mexicans,  Indians, 
and  Americans.  Its  population,  moreover,  is  at  a 
standstill.  As  the  capital  of  a  State  of  160,000  square 
miles,  it  seems  ludicrous,  until  one  reflects  that  there 
are  but  50,000  people  in  the  whole  country.  Of  Spanish 
origin,  it  is  laid  out  in  Spanish  style,   with  the  plaza 

148 


SANTA  FE  149 

or  public  square  in  the  centre.  Around  the  plaza  are 
arranged  most  of  the  more  important  buildings.  These, 
with  few  exceptions,  follow  closely  the  "  adobe  "  archi- 
tecture of  the  "  Pueblo "  Indians,  combined  with  the 
architecture  of  the  later  "  Franciscan "  Missions  that 
were  instituted  by  the  Spanish  Friars,  who  in  the 
early  days  of  colonization  penetrated  far  into  the 
continent. 

In  the  forefront  of  every  march  and  every  exploration 
there  was  always  the  brown-robed  Franciscan,  bearing 
along  with  his  crucifix  the  trowel  and  the  book.  To 
convert,  to  build,  and  to  teach — these  were  the  self- 
imposed  tasks  to  which  he  consecrated  his  life.  Es- 
pecially do  we  honour  him  as  a  builder.  Living  among 
a  passionate  people,  who  resented  the  intrusion  of  strange 
gods  among  their  own,  often  surrounded  by  cruel  and 
relentless  foes,  the  type  of  his  structures  was  determined 
by  the  conditions  of  his  existence.  There  must  be  a 
church  in  which  to  preach  the  new  religion,  a  convent 
in  which  to  live,  and  along  with  these,  a  school  in  which 
he  might  give  instruction.  These  must  be  connected 
and  compactly  placed  to  serve  as  a  fortress  against 
present  enemies ;  and  they  must  be  massive,  to  with- 
stand the  ravages  of  time.  There  were  eleven  such 
churches  in  New  Mexico  alone  prior  to  the  landing  of 
the  Mayflower — and  more  than  fifty  others  were  estab- 
lished during  the  century  which  followed. 

This  is  the  only  type  of  architecture  that  can  be  referred 
to  as  truly  "  American,"  saving  perhaps  the  unenvied 
skyscraper  of  the  East.  This  latter,  however,  belongs 
to  no  school  and  knows  no  creed ;  it  is  not  indigenous 
to  the  soil  or  produced  by  environment,  native  material, 
or   climate.    Instead,   it   defiles   the   heavens   and   cuts 


150      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

the  landscape  into  futuristic  nightmares  of  edge  and 
angle. 

By  far  the  choicest  flower  of  this  renaissance  style  is 
the  New  Art  Museum  at  Santa  Fe.  Recently  completed, 
it  is  admired  by  all,  architects  and  laymen  alike.  It 
embodies  the  designs  of  six  of  the  ancient  Spanish 
Missions,  three  centuries  old,  some  of  which  have  now 
disappeared.  The  others  are  fast  decaying  with  the 
ravages  of  time.  The  outlines  of  the  Museum  are  plastic, 
smooth,  and  flowing,  rising  in  curves  and  terraces,  with- 
out stiffness,  sharpness,  or  repetition.  There  is  a  notice- 
able lack  of  symmetry,  contrasting  so  much  with  the 
style  of  the  Californian  Missions.  Consequently,  there 
is  a  different  composition  and  an  added  charm  with  every 
new  position  or  change  of  aspect.  Inside  are  paintings 
and  sketches  of  Indian,  Mexican,  and  desert  life  and 
scenes,  specimens  of  native  handiwork,  and  an  exhaustive 
library. 

Across  the  road,  on  the  opposite  corner,  is  the 
Governor's  Palace,  the  oldest  governmental  building  in 
the  States.  Its  appearance  would  in  modern  eyes  hardly 
justify  the  term  "  Palace."  It  is  a  very  unimposing 
building  of  native  architecture  but  contains  relics, 
trophies,  and  works  of  art  brought  from  all  corners  of  the 
Western  world.  Within  its  adobe  walls  are  housed 
prehistoric  remains  of  the  extinct  civilization  that 
thousands  of  years  ago  thrived  in  Western  America. 

But  not  only  the  public  buildings  of  Santa  F6  are  of 
Pueblo  construction.  Many  of  the  latest  private  edifices, 
both  residential  and  commercial,  are  of  this  strange 
architecture.  The  offices  and  works  of  the  "  Santa  F6 
Water  and  Light  Company "  give  one  the  impression 
of   its   unique   application    to    business    buildings.     But 


The  Art  Museum  at  Santa  Fe. 


The  Oldest  House  in  America,  at  Santa  Fe. 


SANTA  F£  151 

for  sheer  delight  give  me  the  private  dwellings.  It  is 
beyond  my  power  to  convey  an  adequate  impression 
of  the  soft  beauty  of  one  of  these  exquisitely-designed 
houses,  with  its  smooth-flowing  profiles,  its  shady  "  patio," 
open-air  bathing  pools  and  well-planned  garden.  One 
must  go  and  see  to  understand  and  feel  the  charm  of 
it  all. 

But  from  the  Mexican  houses  as  residences  Heaven 
preserve  me !  Seldom  do  they  boast  more  than  one 
story ;  the  roof  is  flat,  and  very  often  grass  and  weeds 
are  found  thriving  thereon.  The  "  adobe "  walls  are 
recovered  from  year  to  year  throughout  the  ages  as  the 
hand  of  Time  and  the  ravages  of  weather  work  their 
destructive  way.  It  can  almost  be  said  that  a  Mexican 
house  never  grows  old.  The  sun-baked  mud  that  forms 
its  walls  withstands  the  weather  to  an  extraordinary 
extent.  There  is  a  little  house  in  a  little  street  in  the 
outskirts  of  Santa  ¥6,  now  uninhabited,  from  whose 
roof  rises  a  notice-board :  "  This  is  the  oldest  house 
in  America,"  it  reads.  It  was  supposed  to  have  been 
built  over  250  years  ago. 

The  citizens  of  Santa  Fe  are  not  progressive.  The 
climate  is  against  them.  They  do  not  run  any  risk  of 
over-exertion ;  a  considerable  time  is  spent  in  eating 
ices,  drinking  cold  concoctions,  and  lounging  about  the 
plaza  in  the  early  hours  of  the  afternoon.  Here  it  was 
that  I  developed  this  Western  habit.  In  almost  every 
Western  town  there  is  a  central  square  shaded  with 
many  trees,  or  palms  in  the  hottest  places.  The  good 
citizen  and  the  weary  traveller  alike  are  welcome  here. 
They  lie  about  on  the  grass,  or  sit  on  their  toes  as  only 
a  Westerner  knows  how.  Thus  pass  the  blazing  hours. 
It  is  a  treat  to  find  oneself  away  from  the  eternal  hustle 


152      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

and  bustle  of  city  life  and  in  the  midst  of  languid,  easy- 
going freedom.  I  had  several  photographs  that  I  took 
to  the  drug-store  to  be  developed  and  printed. 

"  Shall  I  call  in  to-night  for  them  ?  "     I  said. 

"  To-night  ?  Why,  we  won't  be  able  to  get  them 
through  for  four  days,"  he  replied,  amazed  at  my 
ridiculous   presumption. 

"  But  in  New  York  they  develop  and  print  in  one  day 
only.     Surely  you're  not  behind  New  York  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  don't  do  things  like  that  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  friend ;  you've  made  a  big  mistake.  Nobody 
hurries  in  New  Mexico  !  " 

By  dint  of  special  pleadings,  I  got  the  photographs 
in  three  days.  They  were  nearly  all  ruined  with  having 
been  hurried  ! 

For  three  days  I  created  quite  a  furore  in  Santa  F6. 
The  news  of  my  doings  and  misdoings  was  published 
daily  in  the  Santa  Fi  New  Mexican  during  my  stay.  I 
evidently  afforded  just  the  right  kind  of  newspaper 
fodder  that  New  Mexico  wanted.  My  fame  had  spread 
all  the  way  from  Kansas  City  long  before  I  actually  fell 
upon  the  anxious  population.  My  article  on  Roads, 
etc.,  was  reproduced  immediately  after  its  publication 
in  Kansas,  together  with  several  caustic  editorial  com- 
ments.   Here  is  one  example  : — 

"SEES  AMERICA  BY  COW-PATH." 

English  Warrior  gets  little  rest  touring  America  by  Motor-cycle. 

"  Roads  ?  What  roads  ?  I  haven't  seen  any  roads.  I  have 
been  following  a  place  where  cows  had  been  walking.   ..." 

Here  is  another  heading  to  a  two-column  "  article  "  : — 

"  COW-PATHS  "—and  not  roads  in  America  :— Verdict  of 
British  Royal  Airman  here  on  Motor-cycle. 


SANTA  Ffi  153 

And   again   (this   headed  a  quarter-page    "  Report "). 

"  BALLOON  " — Only  way  to  get  over  New  Mexico  roads, 
declares  British  Aviator. 

I  was  pounced  upon  immediately  after  my  arrival. 
No  sooner  was  I  settled  down  in  a  good  steaming  hot 
bath  (oh,  joy  untold  !)  than  the  telephone  bell  in  my 
room  rang.  I  let  it  go  on  ringing  for  two  or  three  minutes. 
It  would  not  stop.     I  jumped  out  and  lifted  the  receiver. 

"  A  reporter  is  here  to  see  you,  sir." 

"Och,  Hell!  TeU  him  I'm  having  a  bath,"  and  I 
banged  the  receiver  down  and  plunged  again  into  the 
tub. 

In  a  minute  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  "  No 
use  trying  to  shake  off  an  American  reporter,"  I  told 
myself.  .  .  .  u  Come  in  !  " 

The  result  appeared  in  next  morning's  paper — not 
the  result  of  my  observations,  be  it  noted,  however. 
Amongst  other  statements  the  following  was  laid  to  my 
charge  : — 

"  In  my  opinion  the  old  Prairie-Schooner  is  far  superior  to  a 
motor-car  (for  travelling  in  New  Mexico).  If  you  can't  get  a 
schooner,  try  horse-back  travel.  I  really  believe  some  horses 
could  get  through  the  mud  and  dodge  the  boulders.  (It  was 
almost  funny  there  !)  .  .  .  But  the  ideal  form  of  transportation 
over  these  United  States  is  a  big  dirigible,  say  700  ft.  in  length, 
modelled  on  Great  Britain's  R.34.  (It  had  just  recently  crossed 
the  Atlantic,  hence  the  introduction.)  ...  I  might  have 
suggested  the  use  of  an  aeroplane,  but  I  have  been  told  two 
aviators  got  stuck  in  Santa  F6  last  winter  owing  to  the  deep  snow 
in  the  environs.  So  then,  after  seeing  your  roads,  I  should 
recommend  the  R.34  type  of  machine  in  which  to  travel.    ..." 

Suffice  it  to  say  that  I  never  mentioned  Prairie- 
Schooners,  dirigibles,  or  aeroplanes !  We  talked  (or 
rather  our  friend  the  reporter  did)  about  the  many 
notorieties  that  had  passed  through  Santa  Fe*  of  recent 


154      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

years,  and  the  Lowell  Observatory  at  Flagstaff  some 
500  miles  away. 

Every  day  during  my  stay  our  friend  the  reporter 
called  in  at  my  hotel.  Every  day  appeared  in  the  press 
a  lengthy  report  of  an  alleged  interview. 

What  an  interminable  worry  it  must  be  to  newspaper 
editors  of  the  West  to  provide  adequate  copy  for  their 
hungering  readers  ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  RIO  GRANDE  VALLEY 

My  stay  in  Santa  Fe  was  a  pleasant  one.  At  the  Post 
Office  I  found  a  few  letters  and  some  money,  the  former 
forwarded  from  Cincinnati,  and  the  latter  from  Washington 
(it  had  been  cabled  there  two  months  before).  On  the 
morning  of  the  fourth  day  my  weary  frame  was  sufficiently 
rested  to  warrant  my  continuing  once  more.  I  bought 
a  two-gallon  water-bag  in  preparation  for  the  700-mile 
desert  journey  ahead,  and  once  more  set  out  westward. 
A  crowd  of  interested  citizens  witnessed  my  preparations 
outside  the  hotel,  plied  me  with  questions  as  to  how  far 
I  was  going,  how  long  it  would  take,  and  how  old  I  was, 
and  finally  bade  me  farewell  as  Lizzie  burst  into  a  roar, 
and  we  moved  sadly,  if  noisily,  away. 

The  next  town  was  Albuquerque,  some  sixty  or  seventy 
miles  ahead.  The  road  in  between  lay  over  a  barren 
wilderness  of  sand  and  prairie.  The  blazing  sun  poured 
down  upon  it  fierce  and  unrelenting ;  nowhere  was  there 
a  sign  of  any  living  thing.  Hardly  a  hill  or  a  swelling 
relieved  the  monotonous  flatness  of  the  trail.  In  the 
distance,  on  my  right,  rose  rugged  mountain  ranges 
suddenly  out  of  the  trackless  plains. 

After  twenty  miles  appeared  La  Bajada  Hill,  crossing  the 
trail  at  right  angles.  There  was  not  much  climbing  to 
be  done,  but  going  down  the  other  side  was  a  different 
matter.     It  seemed  that  a  great  "  fault"  or  outcrop  had 

155 


156      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

appeared  in  the  plain,  making  it  much  lower  on  the  one 
side  than  the  other.  No  less  than  thirty-two  acute 
hairpin  bends  conducted  the  trail  down  the  precipitous 
slope.  The  gradient  in  places  was  terrific.  At  the 
bottom  was  a  cemetery  ! 

Here  and  there  we  crossed  the  sandy  wash  of  a  one-time 
river,  leaping  over  bumps  and  boulders  and  picking  the 
road  as  well  as  possible.  Occasionally  a  wooden  shack 
was  passed,  with  a  few  dirty-looking  Indians  hanging 
around  :  Indians  dressed  not  in  native  garb  but  in  pseudo- 
modern  style.  The  only  things  that  betrayed  them  were 
their  faces  and  lank  dark  hair.  He  that  goes  to  the  West 
and  expects  to  see  the  landscape  decorated  with  Indians 
dressed  in  multicoloured  garbs  of  picturesque  pattern, 
is  doomed  to  disappointment.  The  first  impression  of  a 
modernized  native  is  disheartening  if  one  has  lingering 
thoughts  in  one's  mind  left  from  childhood's  days  when  one 
read  with  ceaseless  delight  of  stalwart  Indians  with  huge 
muscles  and  painted  bodies  galloping  along,  bow  and 
arrow  in  hand,  on  a  fiery  white  mustang  in  pursuit  of  an 
unfortunate    "  pale-face." 

Ah,  no ! — Nous  avons  changi  tout  cela !  The  Indian 
as  a  rule  is  not  stalwart,  and  decidedly  not  picturesque. 
Having  had  the  gentle  arts  of  civilization  thrust  upon 
him,  and  being  naturally  of  a  lazy  disposition,  he  is  content 
to  loaf  around  chewing  shag  and  disfiguring  the  landscape 
generally  with  his  presence. 

As  Albuquerque  was  approached,  things  looked  more 
flourishing.  The  land  was  cultivated  where  possible,  and 
in  places  corn  and  wheat  appeared. 

It  is  very  strange  to  find  a  prospering  city  in  the  midst 
of  such  desolate  surroundings  as  Albuquerque  has.  It 
came  as  a  pleasant  surprise  to  me  to  see  the  electric  trams, 


THE  RIO  GRANDE  VALLEY  157 

the  wide  streets  and  the  clean  modern  buildings.  I  was 
puzzled  to  know  just  what  it  was  that  kept  the  place  going. 
Albuquerque,  however,  although  the  largest  town  in  the 
State,  has  only  10,000  or  so  inhabitants,  and  is  the  nucleus 
of  a  very  extensive  ranching  district  which  undoubtedly 
largely  constitutes  its  raison  d'Stre.  I  left  it  rather  sadly, 
because,  with  the  exception  of  Flagstaff  some  500  miles 
away,  I  should  not  meet  another  town  of  anywhere  near 
its  size  until  I  reached  the  Pacific  Coast. 

Shortly  after  leaving  Albuquerque  the  trail  crossed  a 
very  wide  shallow  muddy  river — the  famous  Rio  Grande. 
It  was  spanned  by  a  low  wooden  bridge  which  creaked  and 
'  rattled  in  its  planks  as  we  rumbled  across  it.  We  saw 
quite  a  lot  of  the  Rio  Grande  and  got  to  look  upon  it  as 
a  friendly  sort  of  river.  That  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
because  in  a  wilderness  that  is  next  to  being  called  a  desert 
one  can  become  attached  to  anything  that  has  life  or 
movement,  even  if  it  be  a  muddy  stream !  Probably  in 
consideration  of  the  feelings  of  weary  travellers,  but  for 
no  other  apparent  purpose,  the  trail  from  time  to  time 
crossed  and  re-crossed  the  same  old  river  with  the  same 
old  friendly  wooden  bridges  until  finally,  eighty  miles 
farther  on,  it  was  left  to  wander  southward  unmolested 
through  the  plains  and  deserts  of  New  Mexico  and  Texas 
into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

At  Isleta  there  was  a  surprise  in  store.  Isleta  is  a 
charming  Indian  pueblo,  built  wholly  of  M  adobe  "  mud  and 
populated  entirely  by  native  Indians.  So  unique,  so 
bewitchingly  attractive  are  these  pueblos,  that  I  must 
digress  awhile  to  describe  their  nature  and  origin. 

The  history  of  the  American  Indians  since  the  advent 
of  the  White  Man  is  an  unsatisfactory  one  from  all  points 
of  view.    Different  authorities  on  the  subject  have  widely 


158      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

different  opinions  as  to  the  eventual  outcome  of  the 
American  domination,  which  from  generation  to  generation 
has  vacillated  in  its  policy  and,  sometimes  with  bloodshed, 
sometimes  with  bribery,  has  gradually  reduced  the  red 
man  to  subjection,  occupied  his  country  and  enforced 
an  unwilling  civilization  upon  him.  But  all  are  agreed 
that  the  Indian  of  to-day  is  in  a  far  lower  stage  of  civiliza- 
tion than  when  the  early  settlers  first  drove  him  from  his 
rightful  property. 

There  are,  however,  a  few  tribes  which  advanced  much 
farther  along  the  road  to  civilization  than  the  others. 
Moreover  theirs  was  a  civilization  quite  their  own,  not 
acquired  through  contact  with  the  whites.  Chief  among 
them  are  the  Pueblo  (pueblo-building)  Indians,  and  the 
Moqui  Indians,  the  town-building  natives  of  New  Mexico 
and  Arizona. 

The  "  Pueblo  "  Indians  include  several  different  tribes, 
each  speaking  a  different  language.  Each  tribe,  with  only 
one  exception,  comprises  a  number  of  separate  "  pueblos  " 
or  villages,  generally  built  on  the  "  community  dwelling  " 
basis,  that  is,  the  houses  are  in  a  large  and  solid  mass, 
several  stories  in  height,  each  one  receding  from  the  one 
below  and  approached  by  ladders.  In  these  houses,  which 
look  like  great  pyramids,  live  a  number  of  families.  In 
some  pueblos  most  of  the  houses  are  on  this  plan  and 
as  many  as  1,600  people  have  been  known  to  live  in  one 
house.  The  houses  are  built  of  adobe,  and  sometimes  of 
stones  cemented  together  with  adobe. 

Several  of  these  Indian  villages  are  clustered  together  in 
the  vicinity  of  Santa  Fe,  often  on  the  banks  of  the  Rio 
Grande.  Each  has  its  own  customs  and  makes  its  own 
laws.  All  are  centres  of  interest.  Artists  flock  to  them 
from  all  parts  of  the  Continent  to  paint  and  sketch  them. 


THE   RIO  GRANDE  VALLEY  159 

Travellers  tramp  for  miles  to  see  the  Indians  in  their 
native  costumes  and  conditions.  Some  make  jewels ; 
some  make  vases,  ornaments,  idols,  and  all  manner  of 
earthenware  goods  ;  some  work  in  silver,  while  others 
make  blankets  and  rugs.  With  hardly  an  exception  they 
all  make  an  excellent  living  out  of  the  things  they  make 
and  sell. 

Each  of  the  pueblos  has  its  own  feast-days,  or  "  fiestas," 
when,  for  a  time  varying  from  a  day  to  over  a  week,  the 
whole  population  devotes  its  time  to  feasting,  dancing 
and  games.  The  religious  rites  that  are  performed  and 
the  strange  customs  that  prevail  at  these  feasts  and 
dances  form  in  themselves  a  vast  and  interesting  study. 

At  Isleta  the  road  again  crossed  the  Rio  Grande.  This 
done,  it  found  itself  in  a  dry  sandy  wilderness,  with  the 
Manzano  Range  running  from  north  to  south  in  the 
distance.  In  patches  the  ground  was  white  with  sandhills, 
and  the  trail  became  two  straggling  white  lines,  where 
the  wheels  of  passing  vehicles  had  left  their  imprint  in 
the  soft  white  sand.  These  two  white  ruts  were  my 
only  guides.  All  around  was  desolation.  Nothing  was 
to  be  seen  anywhere,  save  those  two  thin  white  lines 
straggling  aimlessly  ahead,  the  sun-scorched  desert  with 
its  ragged  stones  and  evil,  scanty,  tenacious  vegetation, 
and  on  the  horizon  that  fiery  stretch  of  mountain  range, 
whose  peaks  rose  rugged  and  defiant  and  glistened  with 
red  as  if  roused  to  anger  by  the  eternally  raging  sun. 
I  had  never  before  realized  the  great  depth  of  feeling 
that  a  mountain  range  is  capable  of  evoking.  The  Alps 
are  majestic  beyond  description.  They  awe  the  observer 
to  a  sense  of  his  own  utter  insignificance  as  he  gazes  upon 
that  glistening  majestic  sky-line,  and  feels  the  over- 
whelming influence  of  those  mighty  mountains  upon  him. 


160      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

But  if  it  is  an  overwhelming  influence,  it  is  a  friendly 
one — at  least  I  have  found  it  so.  Although  there  is  an 
instinct  in  me,  as  in  most  people,  impelling  me  to  guard 
and  protect  myself  against  anything  that  is  tremendous — 
a  relic,  I  suppose,  of  prehistoric  days — I  feel  towards  the 
Alps  always  like  a  little  boy  feels  towards  his  "  big  brother." 
The  same  feeling  is  seen  reflected  in  the  "  Sierra  Madre  " 
(Mother  Mountains)  of  California. 

But  in  New  Mexico  I  have  seen  huge  ranges  that  one 
could  truthfully  call  nothing  else  but  "wicked."  They 
seem  to  gaze  and  glower  with  a  cruel,  terrifying  gleam 
upon  the  wanderer  who  defies  their  hateful  solitude. 

The  hours  of  travel  that  followed  were  hours  of  weary 
monotony.  A  brief  lapse  every  thirty  miles  or  so  when  a 
tiny  Mexican  village  on  the  Rio  Grande  was  passed,  and 
once  more  the  two  white  ruts  came  into  view,  the  stones 
and  cactus,  and  again  the  evil  mountains. 

Later,  the  sand  turned  to  rocks.  The  trail  began  to 
climb  the  mountains,  and  the  sun  sank  low  in  the  sky. 
If  ever  there  was  a  place  to  starve  to  death,  thought  I,  it 
is  here.  I  reflected  upon  what  the  consequences  would 
be  if  I  ran  out  of  petrol  or  had  a  bad  smash. 

I  didn't  run  out  of  petrol  and  I  didn't  have  a  smash. 
Instead  of  that,  after  about  eighty  miles  from  Isleta,  the 
trail  descended  the  mountain  pass,  re-crossed  the  Rio 
Grande  for  the  last  time,  and  swerved  at  right  angles,  to 
continue  its  course  westward.  Shortly  before  sunset  I 
arrived  at  a  little  Mexican  town  called  Socorro,  where 
both  man  and  machine  were  rested,  while  the  man  that 
kept  the  "  C'fay  "  in  the  plaza  got  busy  with  some  "  eats  " 
for  weary  me. 

After  dinner  away  once  again  we  go.  The  sun  is  setting. 
We  must  find  a  resting-place  before  dark  sets  in,  for  in 


THE  RIO   GRANDE   VALLEY  161 

these  countries  where  the  air  is  clear  and  mountain  ranges 
hem  in  every  horizon  the  darkness  comes  quickly  and  the 
sinking  of  the  sun  below  the  sky-line  means  almost  the 
final  close  of  day. 

There  is  another  range  to  climb :  it  lies  right  ahead 
of  us.  As  we  approach,  it  looms  its  massive  bulk  like  a 
wall  before  us.  The  trail  bends  and  turns  as  if  hesitating 
before  it  tackles  this  difficult  feat ;  up  there  in  front  is  a 
great  gap.  The  road  cuts  through  it,  and  is  seen  no  more. 
Beyond  are  much  greater  heights  to  climb.  Shall  we 
attempt  it  now  or  leave  it  till  the  morrow  ? 

The  smell  of  petrol,  which  the  last  few  minutes  was  a 
suggestion,  became  a  reality.  I  look  down  in  the  fading 
light  and  find  the  precious  fluid  spurting  out  from  the 
carburettor  union.  Evidently  the  pipe  has  broken  away 
with  the  vibration.  So  I  swerve  off  the  road  (almost 
easier  done  than  said)  and  stop  at  the  flattest  patch  of 
earth  that  I  reach. 

Oh,  the  joys  of  the  open  life  once  again  !  Never  shall  I 
forget  that  night  in  the  desert  past  Socorro.  The  sun  as 
it  set  behind  the  range  that  I  had  commenced  to  climb 
plunged  everything  around  into  gloomy  blackness.  Across 
the  valley,  from  north  to  south,  stretched  the  Manzano 
Range  that  I  had  already  crossed.  It  shone  like  fire 
throughout  the  whole  of  its  length.  Gradually  the  rugged 
shadow  of  the  range  behind  me  crept  farther  and  farther 
away,  crossing  the  river  and  mounting  up  the  opposite 
side  of  the  valley.  Slowly,  slowly  it  mounted  up,  higher 
and  higher  as  if  a  great  black  cloak  were  being  drawn  by 
an  unseen  hand  over  that  fiery  ridge  that  glistened  in  its 
evil  splendour.  In  five  short  minutes  there  were  but 
a  few  of  the  highest  peaks  remaining  above  the  inky 
shadow.     They  enjoyed  their  splendour   for  a  few  brief 

M 


162      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

moments  and  then  were  gone,  as  though  wiped  suddenly 
out  of  existence.  All  was  blackness  :  silent,  heavy  black- 
ness.    The  stars  appeared,  one  by  one. 

I  prepared  my  bed  for  the  night. 

What  was  that  ?  A  faint  tinkle  reached  my  ears.  It 
sounded  like  the  noise  of  a  cow-bell,  such  as  one  hears  in  the 
Swiss  valleys.  Yes,  there  it  was  again.  It  must  be  a 
cow !  But  what  was  a  cow  to  live  on  here  ?  No  doubt 
there  was  a  well  near  by.  I  felt  then  that  nothing  in  the 
world  would  taste  better  than  a  drink  of  pure  fresh  milk. 
The  heat  of  the  day  had  been  intense,  and  one  can  always 
drink  in  New  Mexico. 

I  slipped  into  my  field-boots,  took  a  collapsible  cup 
from  my  bag  and  set  out  in  search  of  the  cow.  I  was  quite 
determined  to  milk  that  cow,  come  what  may. 

I  stumbled  over  the  rough  stones,  picked  my  way 
between  the  cactus  plants  and  sage-brush.  I  arrived  at 
a  fence.  The  tinkle,  tinkle  seemed  to  come  from  just 
the  other  side.  Cup  in  hand,  I  climbed  over,  very  gingerly 
so  as  not  to  tear  my  pyjamas.  Pyjamas  in  a  desert, 
think  of  it ! 

"  Now,  where  are  you  ?  "  Ahead  I  saw  dimly  a  large 
black   form. 

"  Come  along,  girlie,  come  and  be  milked,"  quoth  I 
in  my  most  bewitching  manner.  She  moved  not.  I 
advanced  slowly,  trying  to  discern  which  was  the  business 
end.  Meanwhile  I  pictured  the  cow  asking  herself,  "  Wot's 
the  big  idea  milking  me  in  py's  at  this  time  o'  night  ?  " 

I  drew  closer  and  looked.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  bull ! 

I  returned  hurriedly  to  my  bed,  and  cursed  when  a 
prickly  pear  caught  me  on  the  left  shin ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE  PETRIFIED  FOREST  OF  ARIZONA 

In  the  morning  I  patched  up  the  broken  petrol  pipe 
as  well  as  I  could  with  insulation  tape,  and  started  again 
on  my  way.  I  had  to  do  forty  miles  before  I  should  see  a 
soul — forty  miles  before  breakfast  could  be  thought  of. 

It  was  as  well  that  I  had  stopped  where  I  did  the  night 
before.  The  road  twisted  around  precipitous  bends  and 
climbed  up  rough  rocky  slopes  into  the  mountains.  Down 
on  the  other  side  we  found  ourselves  in  a  great  sandy 
plain,  stretching  due  west  and  bounded  by  parallel  ranges 
of  rugged  mountains.  There  were  frequent  washouts  and 
frequent  spills.  In  places  the  little  streamlets  that  flowed 
from  the  mountain  sides  cut  great  chasms  across  the  road, 
sufficient  to  crush  one's  wheels  if  one  leapt  into  them 
at  too  great  a  speed. 

Magdalena  is  a  typical  cow-boy  town.  In  the  heart  of 
ranching  country  and  hundreds  of  miles  from  anything 
but  a  few  similar  towns,  it  was  in  the  early  days  (before 
prohibition)  one  of  the  "  warmest  "  places  in  the  West. 
Cow-boy  outfits  are  seen  advertised  at  all  of  the  few 
"  Stores,"  but  there  has  been  one  big  change — the  notorious 
saloons  are  no  longer.  New  Mexico  adopted  prohibition 
several  years  before  its  universal  approval.  Consequently 
Magdalena  had  had  ample  time  to  settle  down  by  the  time 
of  my  arrival. 

I  was  directed  to  a  "  C'fay  "  that  had  the  reputation 

163 


164      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

of  providing  the  best  meal  in  the  town.  I  pushed  open 
its  swing  doors  and  beheld  a  picture  of  cleanliness  and 
tidiness.  The  tables  were  all  spick  and  span  in  their 
clean  white  tablecloths  and  not  a  vestige  of  dirt  was  visible 
anywhere. 

The  small  boys  of  the  town  displayed  a  lively  interest 
in  me  as  I  disported  myself  with  my  camera  at  the  expense 
of  their  public  buildings  (to  be  exact,  one  wooden  church) . 
"  Look  at  'is  boots,  Jem,"  said  one.  "  Looks  like  as  though 
he's  a  gor-dem  buck- jumper."  "  Aye,  but  'is  pants 
don't  look  ter  be  the  right  stuff,  Joe." 

I  left  them  wondering  and  fell  upon  the  trail  once  more. 
A  few  miles  out  I  came  to  a  "  round-up  "  of  steers.  There 
were  ten  or  twelve  cow-boys  on  horseback,  and  some 
5,000  or  6,000  steers  grouped  together  in  a  large  dense  mass, 
blocking  the  road  altogether.  "  Tough  guys,  those  cow- 
boys," I  remarked  to  myself  and  pretended  to  ignore 
them.  But  I  couldn't  help  thinking  what  might  happen 
if  I  barged  into  one  of  their  animals  or  if  for  any  reason 
they  didn't  like  the  look  of  my  face  ! 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  the  great  mass  of  cattle  moved, 
like  a  tide  sweeping  over  the  plain.  Carefully  I  picked 
my  way  along  and  felt  relieved  when  I  left  them  right 
behind.  I  opened  out  and  prepared  for  a  long  weary 
jaunt.     The  next  town  of  any  kind  was  ninety  miles  away. 

The  first  thirty  were  dead  flat  but  hard  going.  There 
had  evidently  been  considerable  rain  recently.  Emaciated 
mud-holes  were  now  rock-hard  contortions  in  the  road. 
Often  I  rode  on  the  prairie  in  preference. 

Another  thing  was  evident.  There  had  been  a  great 
drought  the  previous  year.  Ranching  is  impossible  with- 
out water,  and  even  now,  in  spite  of  the  recent  rains,  could 
be  seen  here  and  there  a  great  lake-bed  completely  dried 


THE   PETRIFIED   FOREST   OF  ARIZONA    165 

up.  Nothing  remained  but  a  great  mass  of  sun-baked 
hoof-marked  mud,  and  here  and  there  a  skeleton  lying 
upon  it.  The  ranches  of  New  Mexico  are  of  huge  size  and 
cover  enormous  areas.  True,  a  few  good  years  mean 
a  fortune  to  the  rancher,  but  one  bad  one  means  ruin. 
Hundreds  of  ranches  had  been  ruined  the  previous  year,  I 
found,  and  several  thousand  head  of  cattle  had  died  from 
the  drought.  As  I  passed  along,  their  skeletons  lay 
strewn  at  the  roadside,  sometimes  singly,  sometimes  in 
groups  of  a  dozen  or  more.  Hardly  a  refreshing  sight 
for  a  poor  innocent  motor-cyclist ! 

At  the  end  of  the  thirty  mile  stretch  we  entered  hilly, 
thickly- wooded  country.  The  scenery  was  wild  and  rough. 
I  met  no  one  and  saw  no  one.  After  another  fifteen 
miles  was  a  shack  at  the  side  of  the  road.  The  occupation 
of  the  owner  was  selling  petrol  and  oil  to  passing  travellers. 
I  opined  that  this  was  probably  not  an  enviable  vocation 
from  a  financial  point  of  view.  I  filled  up,  and  found  to 
my  dismay  that  the  price,  instead  of  being  twenty-five 
cents  per  gallon,  was  seventy-five.  It  was  100  miles  from 
the  railway,  and  all  supplies  had  to  be  brought  by  road, 
hence  the  trebled  cost. 

I  have  never  been  through  wilder  country  than  that 
which  followed  for  100  miles.  Hilly,  densely- wooded,  and 
fertile,  it  was  most  difficult  to  believe  that  it  was  so  thinly 
populated.  Strange  rock-formations  appeared.  Grotesque 
boulders  of  leviathan  size  lay  strewn  and  standing  in 
grass-covered  openings.  Wild  pigeons  by  the  score  darted 
in  and  out  amongst  the  trees.  Merry  squirrels  scampered 
up  the  pine  trees  and  eyed  me  from  above.  Huge  "  Jack 
Rabbits  "  and  young  antelopes  bounded  here  and  there, 
and,  seeing  the  intruder,  disappeared.  It  all  seemed  such 
a  change  from  the  desert  journey  of  the  day  before. 


166      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

At  Quemado,  about  ninety  miles  from  Magdalena,  I 
felt  hungry.  Quemado  consists  of  a  wooden  shack  of 
an  "  hotel,"  and  one  "  general  merchandise  "  store.  I 
stopped  at  the  "  hotel "  and  fed.  Meanwhile  it  com- 
menced to  rain.     My  spirits  sank  with  the  barometer. 

The  rain  stopped  three  hours  afterwards. 

I  set  out  full  of  energy  and  perseverance  an  hour  after 
that.  We  slipped  and  slithered  and  slid  in  the  miry  road. 
Ten  miles  was  enough.  All  the  energy  and  perseverance 
had  flown  to  the  winds.  I  rode  up  on  to  a  hill-side  to  a 
spot  on  the  fringe  of  a  forest  of  cedar  and  yew.  Propping 
Lizzie  up  on  her  stand,  I  went  in  search  of  fuel.  I  had 
decided  on  the  luxury  of  a  camp  fire. 

Fuel  there  was  in  abundance.  Withered  trunks  and 
broken  boughs  lay  strewn  about  the  hill-side.  I  soon  had 
a  roaring  fire  and  passed  away  an  hour  or  two  before  dark 
in  writing  letters  and  ruminating  on  the  delights  of  a  camp 
fire. 

As  the  sun  sank  down  in  the  valley,  I  slipped  under  the 
old  blanket  and  watched  the  flames  as  they  leapt  f rom*  the 
burning  embers.  Just  ahead,  almost  in  sight  from  where 
I  lay,  was  the  western  borderline  of  New  Mexico.  Just 
beyond  there,  where  the  golden  sun  was  slowly  sinking 
in  the  valley,  was  Arizona ;  the  Arizona  that  I  longed  so 
much  to  see.  I  had  heard  much  of  Arizona  ;  its  wonderful 
climate,  its  ancient,  unknown  ruins,  its  extinct  volcanoes, 
its  stupendous  gorges,  its  great  thirsty  deserts.  What 
would  Arizona  have  in  store  for  me  ?  I  wondered.  And 
the  fragrant  smell  of  the  burning  cedarwood  wove  a  magic 
charm  about  my  thoughts  as  they  slowly  drifted  into  the 
mystic  realm  of  the  unconscious  world. 

Morning  brought  a  smiling  dawn.  I  rose  early  and 
returned  to  the  trail. 


THE  PETRIFIED  FOREST  OF  ARIZONA    167 

In  ten  minutes  I  was  in  Arizona.  A  large  signboard 
indicated  the  fact.  The  road  grew  wider  and  better. 
Even  the  scenery  seemed  to  change  perceptibly.  I  some- 
how felt  at  home  in  Arizona. 

At  Springerville  I  breakfasted  and  bought  picture  post- 
cards. When  travelling  the  latter  operation  is  equally  as 
important  as  the  former. 

Here  the  road  makes  a  sudden  turn  to  the  north, 
bearing  afterwards  to  the  north-west.  After  twenty  miles 
of  riding,  the  country  became  flatter  ;  it  seemed  as  though 
it  were  now  an  immense  plateau.  After  another  twenty, 
I  reached  a  little  town  known  as  St.  John.  Here  I  filled 
a  half-hour  in  the  commendable  process  of  consuming 
ices.  I  had  now  to  traverse  some  difficult  country,  as 
the  great  desert  of  Arizona  was  approached.  There  were 
more  mountains  to  climb,  but  when  the  summit  was 
reached  there  was  little  or  no  decline  on  the  opposite  side, 
the  altitude  grew  higher  and  higher,  and  as  it  did  so, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  earth  grew  flatter  and  flatter. 

There  is  but  one  ridge  ahead  to  climb.  The  rocky  trail 
bends  and  twists  as  it  slowly  swallows  up  the  gradient  that 
connects  us  to  the  horizon.  A  final  swerve,  and  we  com- 
mence a  slight  descent.  There  is  a  gap  in  the  hills  ;  the 
trail  skirts  around  one  side,  and  behold,  a  vast,  unbounded 
plain  lies  before  us,  stretching  to  left  and  right  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  see. 

But  what  is  this  strange  sight  ?  On  our  right,  barely  a 
half  of  a  mile  from  the  road,  is  a  gigantic  mound.  Its 
presence  there,  rising  abruptly  out  of  the  mathematical 
flatness  of  the  plain,  seems  ridiculous,  absurd,  uncanny. 
It  gives  the  impression  of  having  been  just  dropped  from 
the  sky.  It  is  a  mud  volcano — an  uncommon  sight,  and 
formed  by  the  ejection  of  sand  under  pressure  from  below 


168      ACROSS    AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

the  surface  of  the  earth.  All  around,  the  plain  is  of 
distinctly  volcanic  formation.  Indeed,  we  have  now 
entered  a  vast  volcanic  region,  extending  for  several 
thousands  of  square  miles.  Many  of  the  mountains  that 
we  shall  see,  some  of  them  giant  peaks,  and  some  only  little 
hills,  are  extinct  volcanoes  of  other  ages.  They  were 
young  and  active  while  man  was  in  his  barbaric  infancy  on 
this  weary  globe,  perhaps  even  before  that. 

But  soon  is  to  appear  a  far  more  wondrous  sight.  In  a 
few  miles  we  enter  a  country  of  strange  shapes  and  magic 
colours — the  Petrified  Forest  of  Arizona.  The  first  signs 
of  approach  are  chains  of  little  lava  hills  of  grey  and 
white.  They  also  have  an  air  of  abruptness.  One  wonders 
how  they  came  to  be  there  at  all.  Flowing  down  to  the 
flat  plain  in  graceful,  mathematical  curves,  they  look  like 
mounds  of  chalk,  although  they  are  softer  still.  Com- 
posed of  soft,  fine  lava-dust,  they  weather  rapidly  away. 
Now  all  the  plain  is  lava-dust  and  a  tuft  of  lean  grass  here 
and  there  has  found  a  spot  wherein  to  make  a  home. 
Further  on  one  notices  great  blocks  of  stone,  like  pillars  of 
marble,  lying  strewn  about  the  plain,  some  half  buried, 
some  barely  projecting,  and  some  perfectly  naked.  Here 
is  one,  there  is  another — they  are  everywhere,  in  every 
direction,  of  all  shades  of  colour  and  varying  in  size  from 
fragments  an  inch  in  diameter  to  pillars  twenty  or  thirty 
feet  in  girth  and  over  100  feet  in  length.  Every  fragment, 
every  massive  block  of  marble  once  formed  part  of  a  great 
forest  that  spread  for  hundreds  of  square  miles.  The  trees 
of  this  great  forest  were  huge  leviathans,  unlike  anything 
we  know  of  in  the  Old  World  and  similar  only  to  the  giant 
Sequoias  of  California  (but  a  few  hundred  miles  away), 
that  send  their  mighty  trunks  hundreds  of  feet  into  the 
air — the  relics  of  a  bygone  race. 


THE   PETRIFIED    FOREST  OF  ARIZONA    169 

This  great  forest  of  Arizona  was  at  its  prime.  The 
stately  pine  trees  rose  towering  into  the  sky.  Birds  of 
wonderful  plumage  lived  in  those  mighty  branches,  and 
wild  animals  roamed  amongst  its  undergrowth.  Then 
something  happened ;  no  one  knows  exactly  what — this 
great  forest  was  enveloped  in  volcanic  dust  that  in  time 
buried  it  completely.  To  the  eye,  if  eye  there  was  to 
witness  the  scene,  the  forest  was  no  longer  visible ;  it 
lay  buried  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  ;  it  had  passed  away  ; 
as  a  mighty,  living  forest  it  would  exist  no  more.  But 
those  monster  trees  remained  awhile,  preserved  by  the  all- 
surrounding  lava.  What  happened  then  took  thousands  of 
years  to  achieve,  though  it  can  be  recited  in  a  few  brief 
words.  The  trees  in  substance  disappeared,  but  their 
forms  remained  in  the  hardened  lava,  like  huge  moulds 
waiting  to  be  cast,  their  every  crack  and  wrinkle  preserved 
with  inexorable  accuracy.  In  time,  it  may  have  been 
aeons,  the  moulds  were  cast,  by  some  inexplicable  pheno- 
menon, and  where  once  were  timber  and  vegetable  tissues 
came  fluid  marble  rock  that  filled  the  hollows  and  cracks 
and  wrinkles  and  reproduced  the  forms  that  ages  before 
had  been  so  suddenly  arrested  in  their  growth.  Further 
ages  passed,  and  gradually  the  soft  lava  was  removed 
by  the  action  of  wind  and  rain  and  other  causes.  Gradu- 
ally the  harder  material  was  laid  bare,  and  the  giant  trees 
once  more  saw  the  light  of  day,  but  this  time  they  were 
trunks  of  solid  marble  instead  of  pine  wood.  The  work 
of  denudation  continued.  The  marble  pillars,  unsupported, 
fell  to  earth.  Some  broke  into  huge  blocks,  while  others 
remained  more  or  less  intact  through  the  whole  of  their 
length,  and  unless  one  examined  them  at  close  quarters 
and  saw  the  nature  of  their  texture,  they  could  not  be 
distinguished  from  a  tree  that  had  been  recently  felled. 


170      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

There  are  hundreds  of  these  marble  pine  and  spruce 
tree  trunks,  whose  cross-sections,  revealed  where  they 
have  broken,  glisten  with  every  colour  of  the  rainbow.  In 
places,  where  they  lie  tumbled  and  heaped  together, 
it  is  as  though  a  whole  quarry  of  onyx  had  been  dynamited 
out.  In  one  place  a  fallen  trunk  of  marble,  nearly  200 
feet  in  length,  has  spanned  a  gorge  and  formed  a  natural 
log  bridge  that  all  who  dare  can  walk  across. 

Such  is  the  fairy  tale  that  scientists  tell.  The  traveller 
whose  privilege  it  is  to  journey  across  the  Petrified  Forest 
of  Arizona  will  be  lost  in  amazement  at  this  fact  which 
is  so  much  stranger  than  any  fiction. 

I  left  the  wonderful  scene  behind  me  with  a  feeling  that 
I  was  bidding  farewell  to  one  of  the  prime  mysteries  of 
the  world.  Trunks  and  fragments  of  trunks  could  be  seen 
projecting  even  from  the  surface  of  the  road  over  which 
I  passed,  and  a  few  blades  of  fine  grass,  with  here  and  there 
a  stunted  cactus  plant,  were  the  only  sign  of  life  in  any 
direction.  I  passed  out  as  suddenly  as  I  had  entered. 
A  double  S-bend,  where  strange  contorted  rocks  lay  piled 
up  in  confusion  on  either  side — and  the  Petrified  Forest 
was  left  behind. 

The  sun  was  nearly  setting  when  a  couple  of  hours 
later  I  set  out  from  Holbrook,  well  fed  and  well  refreshed. 
From  my  map  I  judged  I  should  be  able  to  reach  the  Little 
Colorado  River,  on  whose  banks  I  could  spend  the  night. 
But  in  Arizona  the  sun  sets  quickly.  It  can  almost  be 
said  to  get  dark  with  a  bump.  The  result  was  that  in 
half  an  hour  I  was  completely  lost  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
Great  Arizona  Desert.  The  trail  had  somehow  disappeared, 
I  knew  not  where,  and  but  for  my  headlight,  I  should 
undoubtedly  have  ended  in  difficulties  amid  the  inky 
blackness.     Loth   to   turn    back,    I    continued    over   the 


A  Petrified  Leviathan. 


Lizzie"  in  the  Petrified  Forest,  Arizona. 


THE  PETRIFIED  FOREST  OF  ARIZONA    171 

almost  trackless  waste  of  rock,  sand,  and  prairie.  I 
arrived  at  the  rocky  bed  of  a  small  stream.  There  were 
a  few  inches  of  water  here  and  there,  but  it  was  not  per- 
ceptibly moving.  It  could  not  possibly  be  the  Little 
Colorado.  I  walked  across  to  the  other  side.  There 
I  found  a  large  ditch,  more  like  an  artificial  dyke,  that 
I  knew  I  could  never  get  Lizzie  across.  There  was  grass 
growing  near,  however,  so  I  laid  down  my  bed  for  the 
night,  resolving  to  leave  further  investigations  till  daylight. 

I  should  have  known  better  than  to  camp  by  an  almost 
stagnant  stream,  but  I  was  so  utterly  tired  that  I  defied 
the  counsel  of  my  own  experience.  Mosquitoes  literally 
filled  the  air.  Never  have  I  known  them  so  thick  and  so 
tenacious.  The  vibration  of  millions  of  wings  kept  the 
air  in  a  constant  shriek — a  wild  yell  that  never  abated. 
I  could  only  obtain  relief  from  their  attacks  by  enveloping 
my  face  completely  with  the  thick  blanket,  and  breathing 
through  it.  Then  everything  became  so  hot — the  night 
itself  was  very  sultry — that  sleep  was  next  to  impossible. 
I  snatched  an  hour  or  two  of  rest,  but  was  a  mass  of  bites 
and  itching  lumps  next  day. 

In  the  morning,  I  returned  to  Holbrook,  had  breakfast, 
and  searched  for  information  about  the  road.  It  appeared 
that  a  bridge  had  collapsed  somewhere,  so  a  new  trail 
had  been  formed  to  circumvent  it.  I  had  missed  the 
turning  the  night  before.  At  the  garage  where  I  made 
these  inquiries,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  removing 
Lizzie's  wheels,  and  of  cleaning  and  adjusting  the  spindles. 
I  packed  them  with  new  grease  in  preparation  for  the  sandy 
journey  to  come,  and  removed  and  re-aligned  the  chain 
sprockets ;  I  wanted  no  breakdowns  or  searches  for  missing 
parts  in  the  baking,  sandy  desert.  It  was  as  well  that  I 
had  taken  precautions.     I  found  the  lock  ring  of  one  chain 


172      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

wheel  missing  altogether,  and  the  sprocket  half-way  un- 
screwed from  its  shaft.  The  only  item  for  regret  was  the 
charge  of  one  dollar  for  the  use  of  the  garage  !  Having 
already  had  experience  of  American  garage  mechanics, 
I  resolved  not  to  allow  any  more  to  learn  their  trade  at 
Lizzie's  expense. 

I  had  no  difficulty  in  picking  up  the  trail  in  the  full 
light  of  day.  Once  again  I  set  out  to  cross  the  great 
Desert  of  Arizona.  The  next  town,  a  kind  of  oasis,  was 
Winslow,  about  forty  miles  away.  The  barren  prairie 
soon  gave  way  to  bare  limestone  rocks  and  shifting  sand ; 
vegetation  disappeared  altogether,  save  for  occasional 
clumps  of  greeny-grey  sage  brush  dotted  here  and  there 
over  the  rocky  waste  that  ever  met  the  eye.  The  air  was 
hot  but  clear.  On  an  elevation  one  could  see  for  tremen- 
dous distances.  The  little  tuft  of  black  smoke  that  hung 
over  Winslow  looked  clear  enough  to  be  a  mile  or  two 
away.  It  was  thirty  ;  in  the  distance  was  a  great  silver 
line,  threading  its  way  intermittently  across  the  plain. 
I  knew  it  to  be  the  Little  Colorado,  which,  like  its  mother, 
the  Great  Colorado,  flows  nearly  the  whole  of  its  length 
in  a  canyon  and  seems  deliberately  to  choose  the  path  of 
greatest  resistance,  cutting  through  rocks  and  gorges  of 
limestone  and  granite  with  ne'er  a  murmur. 

As  Winslow  drew  near,  the  narrow  sandy  track  gave 
way  to  a  broad  concrete  highway.  I  had  not  seen  a  made 
road  of  any  description  for  many  days.  The  appearance 
of  concrete  here  in  the  middle  of  a  desert  seemed  ridiculous. 
I  would  enjoy  it  to  the  full.  Lizzie's  throttle  jumped 
open  unexpectedly  and  away  we  sailed  through  the  breeze. 
"  There's  a  catch  in  this  somewhere,"  I  told  myself. 
There  was !  It  nearly  meant  grief.  The  city  architect 
had  foreseen  the  goading  lure  of  that  cold  flat  stretch  of 


THE   PETRIFIED  FOREST   OF  ARIZONA    173 

concrete  and  made  up  his  mind  that  speeding  should  not 
exist  thereon.  So  he  made  several  dips  therein  at 
intervals,  each  dip  about  five  or  ten  feet  below  the  normal 
level  of  the  road.  Any  attempt  to  travel  at  more  than 
twenty  would  mean  damage  to  the  vehicle  when  it  hit  the 
opposite  side.  Unfortunately  these  obstructions  were 
absolutely  invisible  until  but  a  few  feet  ahead.  Some- 
times there  was  a  warning.  More  often  there  was  not. 
The  first  I  came  to  quite  unawares  and  at  a  high  speed. 
The  machine  with  its  momentum  nearly  leapt  clean  across 
the  space,  and  had  I  been  going  much  slower  it  would  have 
struck  the  opposite  side  lower  down  and  inevitably  have 
caused  a  serious  crash.  I  went  warily  after  that  and  won- 
dered what  ingeniously  contrived  anti-speeding  devices 
I  should  meet  next. 

Arrived  at  Winslow,  I  ate  heartily  of  ices.  The  busy 
modern  town  seemed  a  most  remarkable  contrast  to  the 
sandy  wastes  that  surrounded  it. 

I  now  had  a  long  journey  ahead.  Flagstaff,  the  next 
town,  was  over  eighty  miles  away,  and  the  trail  ran  across 
some  of  the  most  arid  country  of  Arizona.  For  mile  upon 
mile  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  yellow  sand  and, 
on  the  horizon,  a  rugged  range  of  hills.  Ahead,  nearly 
a  hundred  miles  away,  loomed  up  the  San  Francisco 
Peaks,  dark  and  threatening.  Overhead  the  sun  beat 
down  with  unrelenting  fury.  One  could  see  the  shimmer 
of  the  air  above  the  baking  sand  as  the  tremendous  heat 
oozed  out  of  it  into  the  atmosphere.  Here  and  there, 
one  could  see  spirals  of  sand  hundreds  of  feet  high  whisked 
up  by  some  strange  whirling  motion  of  the  air,  and  carried 
for  hundreds  of  yards  across  the  wilderness,  gathering  in 
volume  and  height  as  they  moved,  only  to  collapse  again 
and  give  birth  to  others.     Not  a  sign  of  life  or  vegetation 


174      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

was  visible  anywhere.  What  a  place  to  be  stranded  in 
without  water !  But  I  had  plenty  with  me.  I  stopped 
to  drink  from  the  bag  on  my  handlebar  every  few  miles. 
The  heat  and  the  glare  were  awful. 

A  few  miles  out  of  Winslow  one  cylinder  ceased  to  fire.  I 
had  been  wondering  when  the  next  instalment  of  misfor- 
tune was  to  arrive.  Like  a  true  pessimist,  I  expected  it 
would  come  in  a  place  like  this.     So  I  was  not  disheartened. 

I  stopped  two  or  three  times  to  change  plugs  and  examine 
the  engine.  It  was  of  no  avail,  and  the  heat  grew  so 
intense  when  I  was  not  moving  that  it  was  impossible  to 
stop  for  longer  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  There  was 
no  shade,  not  even  a  rock  to  hide  me  from  the  fiery  sun. 
The  frame  of  the  machine  seemed  red-hot,  and  even  the 
tools  in  the  tool-box  were  too  hot  to  handle  unprotected. 

"  Another  overhaul  at  Flagstaff,"  I  told  myself,  and 
continued  again  on  three  cylinders.  Ploughing  through 
the  loose  sand  absorbed  much  of  the  power  of  the  engine, 
but  I  was  content,  so  long  as  we  kept  moving.  Slowly 
the  metal  sign-posts  of  the  "  Touring  Club  of  California  " 
that  marked  the  miles  were  passed.  They  were  the  only 
items  of  interest  in  this  barren  country.  Many  times  they 
were  missing  altogether.  Often  they  lay  prone  upon  the 
ground,  the  strong,  eight-feet-long  steel  tubing  of  the  post 
bent  in  strange  forms.  They  had  been  uprooted  by  some 
unfortunate  traveller  and  used  as  levers  or  crowbars 
to  extricate  a  car  that  had  left  the  beaten  track  and 
sunk  in  the  loose  sand  of  the  desert.  Some  even  bore 
conflicting  particulars,  and  it  was  quite  usual  to  notice 
the  distances  increase  instead  of  decrease  the  nearer  one 
drew  to  one's  destination  !  Often  the  signs  themselves 
had  been  riddled  with  bullet-holes  "  just  for  fun "  by 
some  blas£  traveller  with  a  taste  for  shooting.     Splendid 


THE  PETRIFIED  FOREST  OF  ARIZONA    175 

amusement,  to  shoot  at  a  sign-post  put  there  at  enormous 
expense  by  a  private  club  for  the  benefit  of  all ! 

Slowly  the  hours  went  by  and,  as  they  did,  a  huge 
thunder-storm  could  be  seen  brewing  over  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Peaks,  now  only  forty  miles  away.  The  whole 
sky  became  dull  and  overcast.  The  loose  yellow  sand 
gave  place  to  rocks  and  shingle,  and  gradually  the  desert 
was  left  behind.  As  the  altitude  increased — we  were 
climbing  slowly  all  the  time — signs  of  life  appeared.  Lean 
grass,  parched  with  thirst  and  brown  with  the  heat,  was 
seen  once  more,  and  later  a  few  sheep  were  noticed  shelter- 
ing behind  rocks  and  boulders. 

I  pushed  forward  with  all  haste.  Flagstaff  was  at  the 
foot  of  the  San  Francisco  Peaks  and  there  would  certainly 
be  a  deluge  very  shortly.  The  road  was  abominable.  In 
most  places  it  was  so  rocky  and  the  gradient  so  steep  that 
it  was  like  riding  up  great  flights  of  rugged  steps.  The 
sharp  rocks  dug  in  the  tyres  down  to  the  rims,  and  the 
vibration  shook  the  very  sockets  of  one's  bones. 

On  the  left,  barely  a  mile  from  the  trail,  we  passed 
the  "  Meteor  Mountain."  This  is  a  most  remarkable 
sight.  Situated  in  the  midst  of  comparatively  flat  or 
rolling  country,  it  looks  at  first  sight  like  the  crater  of  a 
great  volcano.  But  its  origin  is  not  volcanic.  It  gives 
the  impression  of  having  been  formed  by  artificial  and  not 
by  natural  means.  The  crater  is  half  a  mile  across  and 
the  interior  of  the  crater  is  saucer-shaped.  An  air  of 
mystery  envelops  its  origin,  and  many  theories  have  been 
put  forward  to  explain  it.  But  the  theories  have  either 
been  disproved  or  have  never  been  definitely  accepted. 

"  Meteor  Mountain  "  remains  to  this  day  a  mystery 
of  geology.  In  its  crater  is  a  ranch-house  and  hundreds 
of  sheep  graze  in  its  vicinity. 


176      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

A  dozen  miles  farther  on  the  trail  led  on  to  a  magnificent 
steel  bridge  spanning  the  "  Diablo  Canyon  " — a  wonder- 
ful gorge  in  the  limestone  rocks.  Far,  far  below  ran  a 
little  stream  of  clear  water. 

The  sky  grew  blacker  still.  We  continued  climbing 
over  the  sharp,  rocky  trail.  The  mighty  peaks  ahead  were 
almost  lost  in  a  sea  of  blackness.  Distant  thunder 
rumbled  and  groaned  across  the  desolate  waste.  Sharp 
flashes  of  lightning  lit  up  the  heavens  for  a  moment 
and  revealed  the  sharp,  lurid  outlines  of  the  three  giants 
around  whose  peaks  centred  the  fury  of  the  skies.  Slowly 
the  storm  abated.     I  thanked  Heaven  for  that. 

Then  we  came  to  the  fringe  of  a  wonderful  forest  that 
covers  the  plateau  and  clothes  the  mountain  sides  almost 
to  the  summit  of  their  peaks.  The  sight  of  the  trees, 
the  sound  of  the  breezes  as  they  rustled  through  the 
branches  bearing  with  them  the  magic  scent  of  the  pines, 
was  like  passing  from  death  to  life.  It  was  a  new  world, 
a  world  of  new  sensations  and  pleasant  forms.  The 
broiling  wastes,  the  dazzling  yellow  sand,  the  strange  and 
sometimes  ugly  shapes,  the  grotesque,  the  mysterious, 
the  incredible :    these  were  left  behind — for  a  while. 

The  storm  had  almost  passed.  Much  rain  had  fallen, 
but  fortunately  the  trail  lay  through  a  stretch  of  volcanic 
dust.  The  rain  when  it  feD  did  not  dissolve  it,  but  soaked 
through  as  quickly  as  it  fell,  leaving  the  surface  almost 
as  hard  and  dry  as  it  was  before.  I  thanked  Heaven 
again  for  that.  Closer,  closer,  ever  we  climbed,  until 
often  the  mountains  were  hardly  to  be  seen ;  we  were 
amongst  them,  climbing  them,  in  them.  Here  and  there 
the  clustering  trees  grew  thinner  and  fields  of  wild  flowers, 
mauve  and  purple-coloured,  would  burst  into  view, 
clothing  the  valleys  and  the  slopes  like  a  great  carpet. 


THE  PETRIFIED  FOREST  OF  ARIZONA    177 

Then  a  glade  would  appear  of  fresh  green  grass — grass 
so  fresh  and  so  green  that  it  would  seem  to  have  been 
meant  more  for  a  child's  fairy-book  than  for  a  real  live 
world.  Then  a  beautiful  mountain  would  appear  through 
the  trees,  its  sides  and  its  angles  glistening  with  every 
colour  of  the  rainbow  and  changing  with  every  new  aspect. 
This  would  be  an  extinct  volcanic  cone  and  the  colours 
would  be  reflected  from  the  loose  cinders  that  formed  its 
whole.  Then  amongst  the  lofty  pine  trees  the  traveller 
would  see — as  a  last  remnant  of  the  grotesque — vast 
fields  of  lava,  great  beds  of  solid  cinder,  thrown  up  into 
monstrous  shapes  with  strange,  sinister  outlines.  And 
onwards,  ever  onwards,  ever  nearer  to  Flagstaff  we  went, 
the  wheels  gliding  noiselessly  over  the  smooth  lava-track 
that  wound  its  way  in  and  out  of  the  pine  trees  and  up 
and  over  the  foothills  and  valleys  towards  the  West.  We 
enter  a  large  valley,  from  which  a  wonderful  view  of  the 
San  Francisco  Peaks  delights  the  traveller.  They  are 
barely  a  half-dozen  miles  away  now ;  their  great  volcanic 
cones,  over  a  couple  of  miles  in  height  above  the  sea,  can 
be  seen  as  sharply  and  as  clearly  as  though  they  were  but 
100  yards  away.  So  mighty  are  they,  and  so  pure  is  the 
air  of  Arizona,  that  on  a  clear  day  they  can  be  seen  for 
200  miles  in  any  direction. 

At  last  the  small  town  of  Flagstaff  is  reached.  It  is 
clean,  modern,  and  laid  out  in  pretentious  square  blocks, 
some  with  only  a  few  bungalows  built  thereon.  Evening 
was  drawing  on.  Not  having  had  a  meal  for  over  twelve 
hours,  I  hied  me  to  a  restaurant  where  puffed  cereals  and 
apricot  pies  and  mugs  of  good  coffee  effected  a  miraculous 
disappearance.  Thereafter  I  followed  the  scent  of  a 
comfortable  hotel,  where  once  more  I  slept  the  sleep  of 
the  righteous. 

m 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  GRAND  CANYON 

I  woke  up  next  morning  feeling  very  groggy,  for  no 
reason  accountable  to  myself.  It  was  Sunday.  My 
first  endeavour  would  be  to  fulfil  one  of  the  desires  of 
my  boyhood.    It  lay  at  my  very  door. 

The  Lowell  Observatory  at  Flagstaff  is  known 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  civilized  world.  Years 
ago,  hundreds  and  thousands  of  people  read  with  un- 
abated interest  of  the  theories  and  discoveries  of  Professor 
Lowell  concerning  the  planet  Mars.  In  his  book,  Mars 
and  its  Canals,  he  recorded  the  researches  of  a  lifetime 
on  this  most  interesting  of  planets.  He  announced 
his  conviction  that  civilized  life  of  a  very  high  order 
was  present  and  flourishing  on  Mars,  and  supported 
his  theory  with  exhaustive  data  and  series  of  beautiful 
photographs  of  the  planet  at  different  times  and  under 
different  aspects — the  result  of  the  work  carried  out 
at  the  Lowell  Observatory  which  he  himself  had  founded, 
built,  and  maintained  at  his  own  expense. 

In  my  boyhood's  days  that  book  read  like  a  wonderful 
fairy  story,  illustrated  with  photographs  that  were  far 
more  wonderful  and  far  more  strange  than  the  merely 
pretty  pictures  of  fancy.  Some  day,  I  promised  myself,  I 
would  see  the  Lowell  Observatory,  and  look  through  the 
giant  telescope  that  revealed  to  the  human  eye,  millions  of 
miles  away,  so  much  of  the  mysterious  and  the  unknown. 

178 


San  Francisco  Peaks  from  Flagstaff. 


The  Lowell  Observatory,  Flagstaff. 


The  Trail  to  the  Grand  Canyon. 


180      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

The  consequences  I  suffered  were  those  of  ptomaine 
poisoning.  The  next  day  was  spent  in  the  throes  of  it. 
I  crept  out  of  bed  for  an  hour  or  two,  with  just  enough 
courage  to  visit  the  garage  to  whose  charge  I  had  confined 
Lizzie  for  an  overhaul.  Finding  her  once  again  in  pieces, 
but  with  no  parts  broken,  I  returned,  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
and  a  body  full  of  pains,  to  bed.  I  had  discovered  that 
many  patrons  of  a  certain  restaurant — the  one  which 
I  had  so  heartily  greeted  upon  my  arrival — had  also 
suffered  from  ptomaine  poisoning.  I  reflected  that 
this  was  an  ailment  that  often  proved  fatal.  But  I 
determined  that  it  would  not  be  so  in  my  case,  at  any 
rate  not  until  Lizzie  and  I  had  gazed  down  on  the  deep 
blue  waters  of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  That  accomplished, 
anything  could  happen ! 

The  next  day  found  things  much  brighter.  The 
sickness  was  fast  disappearing,  and  I  was  consoled  to- 
wards midday  by  the  sight  of  Lizzie  erected,  tested,  and 
passed  O.K.  I  was,  however,  sceptical  of  the  youth 
to  whom,  in  my  indisposition,  I  had  entrusted  her  delicate 
body.  He  had  sworn  that  he  had  overhauled  Hender- 
sons until  he  could  do  them  blindfold.  With  charac- 
teristic American  modesty  he  claimed  to  be  the  only  man 
between  Kansas  City  and  Los  Angeles  who  knew  any- 
thing at  all  about  the  breed.  That  made  me  a  trifle 
suspicious  at  the  outset.  Furthermore,  he  had  agreed 
to  turn  in  on  Sunday  and  commence  operations,  but 
when  Sunday  came  he  was  hardly  conspicuous  by  his 
presence — the  garage  door  was  locked. 

However,  I  paid  over  the  required  quota  of  dollars 
with  Spartan  stoicism  and  took  Lizzie  once  more  unto 
my  bosom.  Being  naturally  of  a  lazy  disposition  and  a 
firm  believer  in  the  futility  of  walking  whenever  there 


THE  GRAND   CANYON  181 

is  the  remotest  opportunity  of  some  form  of  mechanical 
transit  being  available,  I  had  deferred  an  extensive 
survey  of  the  town  until  I  could  execute  it  in  comfort. 

Originally  a  stores  depot  on  the  early  trail  through 
the  West,  Flagstaff  soon  became  a  ranching  centre  and  a 
kind  of  "  Mecca "  for  cowboys,  globe-trotters,  wasters, 
drifters,  Indians,  Mexicans,  and,  of  late  years,  speculators 
and  East-weary  business  men.  Although  boasting  only 
a  few  thousand  inhabitants,  the  town  is  growing  fast, 
and  naturally  where  towns  grow  fast — a  thing  known  only 
in  the  west  of  America  and  the  Colonies — the  "  real 
estate "  agents  flourish  in  their  legions.  The  people 
of  Flagstaff  are  "  boosters,"  and  so  do  all  they  can  to 
encourage  and  quicken  the  growth  of  their  neat  little 
town.  Many  come  there,  buy  a  plot  of  land  in  one  of 
the  outlying  blocks,  build  a  bungalow  and  settle  down 
for  good,  charmed  with  the  climate,  the  atmosphere, 
the  surroundings,  the  great  pine  forests,  and  the  view  to 
the  north  of  the  mighty  Peaks  that  are  almost  always 
capped  with  snow  and  seem  to  look  down  and  protect 
the  little  town  that  lies  scattered  at  their  feet. 

Next  morning  I  had  concluded  all  preparations  for 
the  fulfilment  of  another  life-long  desire.  My  next 
ambition  was  to  see  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado, 
of  which  I  had  read  much  in  school-books  in  my  child- 
hood. 

In  and  out  through  the  pine  trees  we  swung  once 
again,  darting  down  sudden  dips  in  the  road  and  skipping 
up  little  hills  all  fresh  with  grass  and  thick  wild  flowers. 
In  ten  or  fifteen  miles  of  exquisite  woodland  scenery  we 
had  come  once  more  to  the  fringe  of  the  forest.  Ahead 
lay  plain,  prairie,  and  desert,  with  never  a  town  or  a 
village  or  a  house  to  be  seen  until  the  Canyon  was  reached 


182      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

seventy  odd  miles  to  the  north.  On  the  left  rose  the 
great  San  Francisco  Peaks,  clothed  in  green  and  white. 
On  the  right  lay  Sunset  Mountain,  a  volcanic  cinder 
cone  of  ruddy-brown  hue,  that  glistened  in  the  morning 
sunlight. 

Slowly  they  were  left  behind  as  we  hopped,  skipped, 
and  jumped  over  the  rough  trail  that  swerved  and 
twisted  untiringly  through  the  strangest  country  imagin- 
able. Here  it  would  be  broad  and  sandy ;  there  it 
would  narrow  down  almost  to  nothing ;  further  on, 
it  would  make  a  sudden  bend  and  dip  across  a  "  wash " 
or  some  waterless  river  that  had  never  known  a  bridge ; 
then  it  would  enter  a  beautiful  valley  all  aglow  with 
golden  flowers  that  crowded  thickly  up  its  sides — there 
were  yellow  flowers  everywhere,  in  each  direction  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  see,  and  at  the  same  time  so  close  that 
they  were  swept  aside  by  the  machine  as  it  passed. 
Then  that  picture  passed  away  and  there  remained  just 
two  deep  undulating  ruts  that  struggled  persistently 
across  a  wilderness  of  sand,  rock,  and  boulder.  We 
passed  on  either  side  the  remains  of  ancient  volcanoes, 
now  but  solitary  hills  rising  abruptly  from  the  desert 
around.  Then  appeared  giant  heaps  of  stone  clustered 
strangely  together,  the  ruins  of  ancient  towns  for  many 
a  thousand  years  deserted.  Then  for  miles  and  miles 
was  nothing  but  barren,  arid  waste  that  tired  one's 
patience  and  cut  one's  tyres  and  shook  one's  limbs,  while 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  prairie-dogs  were  ever 
running,  hurrying,  scurrying  away  from  the  intruder 
upon  their  solitude.  Their  holes  were  everywhere,  even 
in  the  ruts  of  the  trail  that  stretched  always  like  a  for- 
gotten, lifeless  thing  through  this  land  of  scorching  lone- 
liness. 


THE   GRAND   CANYON  183 

Four  hours  and  a  half  we  had  now  been  travelling, 
and  not  a  soul,  not  even  a  sign  of  a  living  being  had  we 
seen,  save  the  merry  little  vermin  that  scurried  off  at  the 
sound  and  the  sight  of  us.  For  the  first  time  in  the  whole 
of  the  trip  I  felt  a  great  sense  of  loneliness  creeping  over 
me.  The  solitude,  the  peace  of  the  great  barren  dis- 
tances at  last  made  itself  known — it  was  a  solitude  and 
a  peace  that  I  had  never  felt  before.  It  took  time  for 
me  to  appreciate  its  worth.  I  amused  myself  by  bursting 
suddenly  into  song.  All  the  old  familiar  refrains  came  to 
my  aid,  were  they  hymn  tunes  or  ridiculous  rag-time  airs. 

Feeling  absurd — even  positively  ridiculous — in  my 
efforts  to  remain  cheerful  at  all  costs,  but  comforted  by 
the  thought  that  there  was  no  one  to  witness  my  in- 
sanity, I  continued  thus  until  my  voice  rebelled  and  I 
relapsed  once  again  into  stony — very  stony — silence  ! 

Once  again  the  trail  entered  a  great  forest ;  huge 
pine  trees  and  cedar  trees  closed  densely  around  and  the 
trail  branched  and  split  here  and  there  to  avoid  them. 
The  vegetation  grew  thicker.  It  seemed  wonderful 
how  it  could  possibly  thrive  in  such  a  country.  Not 
a  drop  of  water  had  I  seen  for  eighty  miles,  when  sud- 
denly a  most  beautiful  vista  appeared  directly  ahead  of 
me.  There  was  a  wonderful  lake  bordered  with  giant 
pine  trees,  its  waters  still  and  flat  like  a  great  jewel.  At 
its  edge  a  few  horses  were  drinking.  It  was  such  a 
magnificent  sight  that  I  was  forced  to  stop  to  admire 
it  to  the  full.  I  breathed  a  prayer  that  my  little  pocket 
camera  would  do  it  justice,  and  convey,  if  only  a  fraction, 
some  of  that  entrancing  charm  that  hung  over  its  glassy 
waters. 

On  once  again  we  rode,  through  avenues  of  pine  and 
cedar  ;    the  further  we  went,  the  thicker  the  forest  grew 


184      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

and  the  greater  the  stately  trees  became.  It  was  possible 
only  to  see  a  few  yards  ahead  in  some  places.  .  .  . 
"  But  say,  we  must  be  getting  near  the  Canyon  soon  ! 
How  can  all  this  be  ?  "  I  asked  myself. 

Swerving  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left,  to  avoid 
some  obstacle,  now  leaving  the  trail  altogether  to  ride 
on  the  soft  green  grass  at  the  side,  when  a  boulder  or  a 
fallen  branch  blocked  the  way,  it  was  like  exploring  one 
of  those  magic  forests  where  fairies  .  .  . 

The  thought  was  never  finished. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  earth  had  suddenly  stopped 
dead.  There,  in  front,  the  great  tree  trunks  stood 
silhouetted  against  space  itself.  It  was  as  though  some- 
thing dreadful  had  happened.  Beyond  was  tremendous, 
awful  nothingness  that  made  the  observer  catch  his 
breath  and  sent  a  shiver  throughout  his  frame.  But 
see,  there,  on  the  distant  horizon,  like  a  dimly-coloured 
shadow,  lies  the  opposite  side  of  the  gigantic  rift,  ten, 
twenty — aye,  in  places  thirty  miles  away.  It  is  a  sight 
to  enjoy  in  silence,  with  reverence  and  with  fear.  Once 
seen,  it  is  never  to  be  forgotten,  that  first  glimpse  of  the 
greatest  of  all  natural  wonders — the  Grand  Canyon 
of  the  Colorado. 

The  trail  made  a  sudden  swerve  to  the  left  and  followed 
close  to  its  brink.  There  were  some  wooden  railings  ; 
beyond,  a  varying  strip  of  broken,  rocky  moorland ; 
and  then,  space.  Leaving  Lizzie,  I  clambered  down  a 
narrow  pathway  carved  in  the  rocks  that  led  to  a  jutting 
prominence  known  as  "  Grand  View  Point."  Seated 
on  a  huge  lump  of  limestone  that  reared  like  a  lofty 
pinnacle  thousands  of  feet  above  the  chasm  below,  I 
surveyed  in  mute  bewilderment  the  overpowering,  awe- 
inspiring  sight. 


THE   GRAND   CANYON  185 

The  Grand  Canyon  has  never  been  described.  It  is 
too  immense,  too  sublime,  too  unearthly  for  mere  words 
to  convey  one  iota  of  its  might  and  majesty.  One 
struggles  with  the  futility  of  mere  expression  by  words 
where  such  a  spectacle  is  concerned  and  finds  that  all  the 
known  phrases  and  well-used  artifices  of  speech  are  use- 
less to  convey  to  another  the  sense  of  infinite  grandeur 
that  only  sight  can  appreciate — and  that  so  feebly  ! 

The  Canyon  is  a  titanic  rift  in  the  earth,  over  200 
miles  in  length.  The  Colorado  River,  hardly  ever  seen 
from  its  brinks,  lies  6,000  feet  below  the  surface  of  the 
plain  through  which  it  has  cut.  JEons  of  time  have 
been  taken  in  the  making  of  it,  and  it  is  yet  but  young, 
its  progress  still  continuing.  That  sinister  river,  to 
reach  which  takes  a  seven-mile  walk  down  the  trail  that 
leads  to  its  waters,  has  cut  down  through  strata  of  rock 
that  took  untold  millions  of  years  to  be  deposited,  has 
cut  lower  and  lower  until  it  has  come  to  the  very  be- 
ginning, the  foundation  of  the  earth,  and  then  it  has 
carved  its  way  even  through  the  granite,  the  very  crust 
of  the  earth,  to  a  depth  of  almost  1,000  feet.  Eternal 
erosion  by  water,  winds,  and  frost  has  helped  it  to  play 
its  part,  and  now  nigh  on  2,000  cubic  miles  of  limestone, 
sandstone,  and  granite  have  disappeared  entirely — all 
carried  as  sediment  into  the  Pacific  Ocean  by  the  river 
that  for  ever  swirls  and  rages  in  its  bosom. 

The  actual  settlement  that  goes  by  the  name  of  the 
Grand  Canyon  is  twenty  miles  further  on.  The  trail 
follows  closely  the  rim  of  the  Canyon,  cutting  through 
the  fringe  of  the  "  Coconino  National  Forest,"  with  its 
stately  pine  trees  that  crowd  up  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
plateau. 

When  the  end  of  the  trail  is  reached,  it  is  as  though 


186      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

the  traveller  had  arrived  at  the  edge  of  the  world.  On 
the  right  is  a  luxurious,  low-built  hotel  all  but  toppling 
over  the  edge  ;  on  the  left  is  a  railway  station  ;  and  that 
is  all.  The  road  almost  doubles  back  on  itself,  swerving 
due  south  towards  the  Continental  Trail  eighty  miles 
away.  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  at  the  end  of  this 
world  there  will  be  either  a  luxurious  hotel  or  a  railway 
station  at  the  service  of  the  weary  traveller,  but  the 
appearance  of  finality  of  all  things  is  complete  when 
one  is  faced  with  that  terrible  chasm  ahead. 

For  three  days  and  three  nights  I  sojourned  at  the 
Canyon,  content  to  gaze  upon  its  ever-changing  colours, 
and  to  marvel  at  the  wealth  of  beauty  and  variation 
of  spectacle  that  lay  in  its  mighty  bosom,  always 
changing,  always  fresh,  always  more  wonderful  than 
before.  One  day  after  breakfast  I  began  strolling  down 
the  narrow  "  Bright  Angel  Trail "  that  leads  from  the 
summit  to  the  river.  Between  two  and  three  feet  wide 
in  most  places,  it  is  wonderfully  built  and  kept  in  ex- 
cellent repair  for  the  mule-back  parties  of  tourists  that 
daily  descend  its  seven  tortuous  miles  in  the  morning 
and  ascend  them  again  in  the  evening.  In  places  it  is 
like  a  spiral  pathway  down  an  almost  perpendicular  wall. 
One  looks  over  and  sees  it  doubling  and  folding  and 
twisting  on  itself  like  a  thin  white  line  until  it  is  lost 
behind  some  prominence  thousands  of  feet  below. 

I  did  not  mean  to  walk  down.  Walking  is  not  my 
forte  ;  I  only  set  out  to  take  a  few  photographs.  I 
have  the  best  of  reasons  for  believing  that  people  never 
walk  down  the  Canyon.  Instead  they  bulge  upon 
diminutive  mules  in  strings  of  twenty  or  thirty  or  more 
and  make  the  descent  slowly,  nervously,  solemnly,  and 
more  or  less  in  comfort.     True,  there  are  places  where 


THE   GRAND   CANYON  187 

the  trail  is  so  precipitous  that  they  have  to  dismount 
for  safety's  sake,  but  to  walk  the  whole  way  would  be 
absurd. 

Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  I  found  myself  tramping 
down  the  long,  steep  trail.  The  more  photographs  I 
took,  the  further  down  I  went  to  take  another.  One 
view  followed  another  with  endless  change.  At  every 
turn  there  was  some  new  sensation,  some  fresh  vista  that 
just  cried  out  for  remembrance.  In  this  way  I  gradually 
found  myself  descending  into  the  depths  of  the  Canyon. 
Truly  it  is  the  most  wonderful  walk  I  have  ever  had. 

It  was  as  though  the  traveller  were  entering  a  new 
world  of  a  new  climate,  new  scenery,  and  new  sensations. 
Up  on  the  plateau  at  the  top  the  altitude  was  8,000  feet 
above  sea  level,  and  the  heat  there  had  been  intense. 
But  as  I  descended  thousand  after  thousand  of  feet  into 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  the  air  became  more  dense  and 
the  heat  more  intense  until  at  the  bottom,  over  6,000 
feet  below,  the  climate  was  almost  tropical.  Further, 
the  great  "  temples " — the  fragments  of  the  plateau 
where  the  erosion  had  left  isolated  mountains  remaining 
within  the  gorge — took  on  a  far  different  aspect  when 
viewed  from  below.  From  above  one  saw  them  as 
one  would  see  hills  and  valleys  from  an  aeroplane — with 
hardly  any  relief.  But  from  below  they  loomed  up  sharp 
against  the  sky,  each  one  a  mighty  mountain  in  itself. 
What  seemed  from  the  brink  to  be  a  mere  blotch  of 
green  mould  on  the  bare  rocks  below  proved  on  closer 
acquaintance  to  be  a  luxurious  coppice,  dense  with  trees 
and  shrubs  and  tall,  thick  grass.  Minute  specks  of  black 
scattered  broadcast  on  the  slope  turned  out  to  be  trees 
that  eked  out  a  scanty  but  sufficient  livelihood  on  the 
crevices  and  the  crags.     A  brown,  inconspicuous  carpet 


188      ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

from  above  developed  into  a  huge  tropical  plateau  several 
miles  across.  So  clear  is  the  atmosphere  and  so  great 
are  the  distances  that  magnitudes  are  ridiculed  and 
illusions  raised  to  the  point  of  absurdity. 

It  was  well  after  midday  when  I  reached  the  bottom 
and  watched  the  roaring,  rushing  Colorado,  like  a  great 
yellow  flood,  lashing  its  angry  way  between  the  steep 
walls  of  the  granite  gorge.  Above,  it  had  been  invisible, 
unknown,  and  whisperless. 

The  walk  back  developed  into  a  tiring,  eternal  struggle 
up  an  interminable  staircase  that  had  no  stairs.  Some- 
times I  half  decided  to  rest  until  next  day.  At  intervals 
I  grasped  my  knees  in  my  hands  and  helped  to  lift  the 
heavy,  tired  feet  one  above  the  other.  I  abused  myself 
heartily  for  not  having  furnished  myself  with  reserve 
refreshments  before  starting,  and  then  remembered  that 
I  had  only  set  out  to  take  a  few  pictures  ;  I  had  quenched 
my  thirst  at  a  little  creek  six  hours  before,  but  felt  that 
a  meal  of  some  kind  would  be  acceptable. 

I  arrived  at  the  top  about  5.30.  The  mule-party  had 
overtaken  me  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before.  They  had 
only  stopped  half  an  hour  at  the  bottom  for  lunch. 

"  Waal,  I've  done  some  walkin'  in  my  time,  boss, 
but  I  guess  you've  gotten  the  best  pair  o'  legs  that  ever 
my  optics  did  see,"  was  the  remark  of  one  heavily-spec- 
tacled American  who  beamed  from  his  mule  upon  me 
as  he  passed. 

"  Aye,  that's  so,"  echoed  others  in  the  long  file  with 
undisguised  approbation. 

So  the  reader  will  observe  that  I  am  already  becoming 
Americanized,  even  in  true  modesty ! 

My  stay  at  the  Canyon  was  longer  than  I  had  antici- 
pated.    Considerable  rain  had  fallen  on  the  second  day, 


THE   GRAND   CANYON  189 

and  a  report  came  through  that  the  road  in  places  had 
been  washed  clean  away.  Just  what  that  meant  I  did 
not  know,  but  I  did  not  fear  it  in  the  slightest.  My 
experience  of  the  roads  in  Arizona  was  that  they  were 
much  better  away  than  present.  But  I  had  no  taste 
for  mud,  so  I  waited  for  the  sun  to  do  its  work  before 
starting  back  again. 

I  left  the  Grand  Canyon  with  regret.  Everything 
was  so  wonderful  and  I  just  seemed  to  have  begun  to 
make  friends  with  it.  At  first  it  all  seemed  so  great, 
so  awful,  so  grotesque  as  to  give  one  the  impression  of 
anything  but  friendliness.  I  had  begun  to  overcome 
that  feeling,  as  everyone  does  in  time.  The  truth  is  that 
it  takes  a  long  acquaintanceship  with  the  giant  wonders 
of  the  world  to  form  anything  approaching  a  true  idea 
of  them. 

Mud  there  was  in  plenty  on  the  way  back.  In  the 
forest  going  was  bad  and  slow,  for  the  sun  had  not  had 
its  due  quota  of  time  to  play  upon  the  damp  earth.  But 
in  the  open  there  was  a  marked  improvement.  The 
only  evidence  of  the  heavy  rains  was  an  occasional  pool 
of  water  between  the  tracks  of  the  road  that  had  not 
yet  been  completely  dried  up,  and  this  remained  as  a 
pool  of  muddy  water  within  a  ring  of  soft,  dark-brown 
mud. 

I  was  glad  that  progress  was  not  so  bad  as  I  had 
expected.  I  was  tired  of  making  slow  progress,  low 
averages,  and  big  delays,  so  whenever  I  had  the  chance 
I  gave  Lizzie  her  reins  and  with  many  bursts  of  speed 
where  the  condition  of  the  road  permitted,  and  occasional 
hold-ups  where  it  did  not,  we  made  pretty  good  progress 
for  a  couple  of  hours. 

Until  .  .  . 


190      ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

We  were  about  half-way  between  the  Canyon  and 
Flagstaff.  The  country  was  bare  and  rocky — almost 
on  the  fringe  of  the  "  Painted  Desert."  I  was  riding 
on  the  narrow  but  level  track  between  the  two  large  ruts 
that  formed  the  road.  I  was  furthermore  enjoying  a 
little  burst  of  speed,  my  eyes  glued  on  the  little  strip 
below  me,  for  if  I  but  once  missed  it  and  allowed  Lizzie 
to  slip  into  either  of  those  deep,  treacherous  ruts  that 
bordered  it,  there  would  be  a  nasty  smash. 

I  must  have  been  too  careful,  for  I  had  not  noticed 
a  fairly  large  and  deep  mud-pool  dead  in  the  centre  of 
the  track  and  only  a  few  yards  ahead  of  me.  There  were 
just  about  three  or  four  inches  between  either  side  of 
it  and  those  terrible  ruts.  If  I  banged  into  it,  it  would 
mean  a  nasty  jar  to  the  machine  and  possible  damage. 
I  judged  I  could  steer  round  all  right  without  fouling 
the  rut. 

The  front  wheel  went  through  splendidly.  The  back 
one,  approaching  at  an  angle  as  I  swerved,  did  not.  It 
just  skimmed  the  greasy  edge  of  the  pool  and  commenced 
momentarily  to  side-slip  down  into  the  hollow.  That 
was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  I  was  going  fast,  and  the 
equilibrium  of  the  machine  had  been  suddenly  upset. 
The  nightmare  known  as  a  "  speed- wobble  "  ensued. 

I  did  my  utmost  to  check  it,  but  it  got  worse  and  worse. 
From  one  side  to  the  other  the  machine  swayed,  like  a 
great  pendulum,  swinging  faster  and  faster  and  each  time 
through  a  greater  distance.  For  some  time  I  managed 
to  keep  the  swerves  within  the  limits  of  the  track  with- 
out fouling  the  ruts  and  the  rocks  at  the  side,  but  it  was 
no  use ;    I  saw  a  fearful  crash  coming. 

The  wobble  developed  at  an  alarming  speed  ;  no  doubt 
the  heavy  baggage  on  the  carrier  helped.     At  the  end 


THE  GRAND   CANYON  191 

of  each  oscillation  the  machine  was  at  a  still  greater, 
a  still  more  ridiculous  angle  to  the  ground.  The  front 
wheel  caught  something.  It  had  to  come  sooner  or 
later.  With  a  wild  lurch  we  crashed  down  on  the  loose 
rocks  and  boulders  that  bordered  the  trail.  Our  momen- 
tum was  soon  absorbed  owing  to  the  rough  nature  of 
the  rocks  and  boulders  aforesaid. 

"  Here  endeth  the  trip  to  the  coast.  Farewell,  Lizzie  ; 
it  might  have  happened  sooner,  you  know,  old  girl." 
That's  what  I  was  saying  to  myself  as  I  struggled  from 
underneath  her  remains  ! 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE    MOHAVE   DESERT 

I  have  often  thought  there  must  be  a  guardian  angel 
watching  over  mad  motor-cyclists.  Certainly  in  my 
case  some  theory  of  that  sort  is  necessary  to  account 
for  the  almost  entire  immunity  from  personal  damage 
that  I  have  always  experienced  when  fate  has  led  me 
into  crashes  of  all  kinds.  At  one  time  and  another  I 
have  performed  wonderful  acrobatic  feats  after  a  bad 
skid  or  a  sudden  encounter  in  the  dark  with  a  stray  horse 
or  a  flock  of  sheep.  By  all  the  laws  of  nature  and  com- 
mon sense,  I  should  long  since  have  ceased  to  labour 
on  this  earthly  plane.  Instead  of  that,  I  continue  to 
flourish  like  the  green  bay  tree,  the  terror  of  the  country 
I  inhabit,  and  the  bane  of  the  Company  that  has  the 
misfortune  to  insure  my  machines  ! 

Thus  it  happened  that  when  I  extricated  myself  from 
the  debris,  I  found  myself  still  sound  in  wind  and  limb. 
Apart  from  one  finger  having  been  crushed  between  the 
handle  and  the  final  boulder,  and  the  absence  of  one 
or  two  square  inches  of  good  epidermis  here  and  there, 
I  had  nothing  whatever  to  complain  of. 

Lizzie,  however,  wore  a  forlorn  look.  Her  left  handle- 
bar was  badly  bent  and  most  of  the  controls  and  projec- 
tions on  her  starboard  side  were  either  bent  backwards 
or  swept  clean  away.  The  stand,  a  heavy  steel  structure 
strong  enough  to  make  a  suspension  bridge,  had  broken 

192 


THE  MOHAVE  DESERT  193 

away  altogether,  and  had  not  the  footboard  been  of  the 
collapsing  type,  it  would  undoubtedly  have  shared  the 
same  fate. 

An  hour  of  doctoring,  with  frequent  applications  of 
wire  and  insulation  tape,  and  Lizzie  was  going  again. 
I  was  relieved  in  the  extreme  to  find  that  after  all  there 
was  a  chance  of  continuing  to  the  coast  under  her  own 
power.  My  forefinger  pained  a  trifle,  and  I  could  not 
bear  to  bend  it.  I  believe  always  in  leaving  Nature 
to  carry  out  her  own  repairs — it  saves  a  lot  of  time  and 
bother  and  generally  gets  the  job  finished  much  quicker 
in  the  end,  so  I  spent  no  time  in  doctoring  it. 

We  got  back  to  Flagstaff  all  right  that  evening  and, 
accepting  the  hospitality  of  one  of  the  astronomers  at 
Mars  Hill,  I  spent  the  night  at  his  bungalow  up  amongst 
the  pine  trees.  It  was  nearly  a  month  before  I  regained 
the  use  of  my  finger  and  over  three  months  before  the 
sense  of  feeling  came  back  to  it.  Evidently  it  had  been 
broken  at  or  near  the  joint. 

Two  days  afterwards  I  made  an  unwilling  exit  from 
Flagstaff.  I  was  so  enamoured  with  the  spirit  of  the 
West  and  the  cordiality  of  its  people,  as  well  as  the  scenery 
and  the  climate,  that  it  seemed  a  shame  to  move  away. 
But  how  could  I  do  otherwise  when  in  three  days'  good 
running  I  should  be  enjoying  the  reality  of  the  deep  blue 
Pacific  washing  up  against  the  fringe  of  some  golden 
Californian  valley  ? 

From  Flagstaff  to  Williams,  a  thirty-mile  jaunt,  the 
road  traversed  the  edges  of  the  Coconino  Forest.  In 
places  it  was  almost  impassable.  Stretches  of  rock- 
hard  mud,  that  had  been  cut  up  into  fantastic  shapes, 
hindered  progress  for  hundreds  of  yards  at  a  stretch. 
I  had  often  to  resort  to  the  old  expedient  of  chipping 

o 


194      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

the  edges  of  the  ruts  away  in  advance  to  enable  Lizzie's 
cradle  frame  to  get  through.  Then  for  miles  there  were 
stretches  of  incredible  roughness  where  often  I  left  the 
road  and  scrambled  over  the  rough  prairie  at  the  side, 
leaping  over  gullies,  mounds,  cracks,  and  rocks  in  prefer- 
ence to  the  treacherous  trail.  But  the  wild  scenery- 
compensated  for  everything.     It  was  exquisite. 

Town  after  town  slowly  but  surely  went  by,  and  as 
they  did  so,  the  country  grew  wilder  and  the  climate 
hotter.  The  trail  wound  through  great  gorges  with 
towering  cliffs  that  obscured  most  of  the  sky.  Mad 
rivers  would  come  rushing  down  from  mountain  sides 
and  seldom  were  there  bridges  with  which  to  cross  them. 
Vegetation  became  less  plentiful  and  here  and  there 
were  stretches  of  barren  prairie  land  with  great  boulders 
and  masses  of  rock  spread  indiscriminately  about  them. 

Past  Ashforks,  some  sixty  miles  from  Flagstaff,  I  came 
upon  a  Ford  car  by  a  wide,  rough-bedded,  unbridged 
river.  The  owner,  dressed  in  blue  combination  overalls 
(the  standard  garment  of  the  West)  was  playing  round 
it  with  a  "  monkey-wrench." 

"  Want  anything,  brother  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No  thanks,  nothing  wrong,"  he  replied,  eyeing  Lizzie 
and  me  curiously  up  and  down.  "  Gee  !  What  the  .  .  ." 
(his  eye  caught  the  number  plate) — "  Well,  I'll  be  gol- 
darned  !  " 

44  How's  the  road  ahead  ?  "  I  asked,  ignoring  his  evi- 
dent amazement  at  one  so  young  having  come  so  far  ! 

"  Pretty  tough  in  places.  You've  got  a  fairly  good 
run  for  a  hundred  miles,  but  you've  got  to  keep  your  eyes 
skinned  for  washouts.  There's  a  big  one  about  ten  miles 
further  on,  just  before  you  come  to  Pineveta.  You 
can't  miss  it.     It's  just  beyond  a  big  cliff  on  the  left  side 


THE  MOHAVE  DESERT  195 

where  it  says  '  Repent  your  Sins,  the  End  is  at  Hand.' 
And  by  G — ,  you'd  better  repent  'em  quick  in  ease  any- 
thing does  happen  !  " 

Washouts  there  were,  good  and  plentiful.  Great  gul- 
lies had  been  cut  across  the  roads  by  the  rains.  Many 
were  not  visible  much  before  they  were  felt.  On  the 
whole  it  was  exciting  running. 

Pineveta  was  a  most  "movie-looking"  town.  I 
could  easily  have  imagined  myself  a  Gaumont  operator 
on  several  occasions.  Every  building,  whether  a  house, 
the  village  church  or  the  town  hall,  was  of  wood  and  of 
the  simplest  construction  possible.  Everything  seemed 
loose,  ramshackle  and  toppling.  It  was  a  good  home 
for  the  tough  guys  of  the  West,  where  towns  spring  up 
in  a  night,  prosper  awhile  and  then  fade  into  insignificance. 

After  Seligman,  another  twenty  miles  further  on,  the 
trail  showed  signs  of  nervous  prostration.  It  led  into 
a  great  canyon  whose  grey  walls  towered  high  on  either 
side.  Then  it  seemed  to  say  to  the  traveller,  "  See  here, 
Boss,  you  can  go  on  if  you  like,  I'm  staying  right  here ; 
had  enough  of  this."  It  had  already  dwindled  down  to 
a  couple  of  ruts  in  the  sandy  bed  of  the  canyon  and  now 
it  was  besieged  on  all  sides  with  dense  growths  of  grey 
scrub,  like  sage-brush.  Even  the  ruts  were  barely  visible 
and  now  appeared  only  in  white  patchy  blotches  through 
the  scrub  that  grew  a  foot  or  a  couple  of  feet  high  in  dense, 
clustered  tufts.  It  seemed  as  though  something  would 
have  to  be  done  about  it  soon. 

Finally  we  came  to  a  wooden  fence,  rudely  but  effect- 
ively constructed  and  barring  the  way  entirely.  Behind  the 
fence  was  a  railway  track.  Evidently  it  was  necessary  to 
cross  the  track  somewhere  but  not  the  slightest  opportunity 
did  there  appear  of  doing  so.    I  explored  awhile. 


196      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

On  the  left,  where  the  trail  had  ended,  the  fence  showed 
signs  of  having  been  pulled  down  and  ruts  in  the  ground 
bore  witness  to  traffic  having  gone  that  way  at  some 
time  or  another  more  or  less  remote.  But  stay,  what 
is  this  ?  A  large  post  had  been  torn  down  from  the  fence 
and  laid  right  across  the  track  of  the  apparent  detour. 
In  the  middle  of  it,  and  fastened  on  by  a  piece  of  wire, 
was  a  scrap  of  paper  bearing  the  following  anonymous 
inscription  in  scrawled   handwriting — "  Do  ant  go  this 

EODE   CANT   GET   THRU." 

Now  wasn't  this  kind  of  some  one  ?  I  began  to  wonder 
if  I  would  have  gone  to  the  same  trouble  if  I  had  struggled 
through  a  fence  on  an  old  Ford  car  (I  was  sure  from  the 
writing  that  it  was  a  Ford)  and  after  proceeding  half  a 
mile  or  so  over  interminable  boulders  and  gullies  had 
found  it  necessary  to  come  back  again.  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  would,  at  any  rate,  if  I  was  in  the 
West,  and  thus  consoled,  I  proceeded  to  search  for  another 
outlet. 

Yes,  here  were  a  pair  of  ruts  leading  off  backwards 
at  a  tangent.  Where  they  went  was  not  possible  to  see, 
for  they  were  overgrown  with  scrub.  I  started  Lizzie 
once  again,  put  her  front  wheel  into  the  deeper  of  the 
ruts  and  set  off  whither  it  should  take  me.  It  was  faith- 
ful and  true.  Brushing  the  bushes  sideways  with  the 
machine  as  we  passed,  we  arrived  in  half  a  mile  at  a  gate 
where  a  good  wide  road  appeared.  It  was  the  entrance 
to  the  "  city "  of  Nelson,  consisting  of  a  few  shacks, 
a  ranch-house  and  a  railway  station.  After  opening  a 
few  more  gates  we  crossed  the  rails  at  a  level  crossing 
and  were  going  once  again  swiftly  westwards. 

"  Dinner  in  Peach  Springs,"  I  told  myself.  Peach 
Springs  on  my  AAA  Map  was  a  fair-sized  town  fifteen 


THE  MOHAVE  DESERT  197 

miles  ahead.  Evening  was  drawing  on  and  there  would 
not  be  much  light  left  for  travelling,  but  where  dinner 
was  concerned  it  was  another  matter.  Proceed  we  must, 
until  fodder  hove  in  sight. 

Slowly  the  canyon  was  left  behind.  The  country 
opened  out  and  became  flatter.  Vast  rolling  plains 
appeared,  with  cedar  woods  creeping  down  their  slopes. 
The  air  was  sultry,  hardly  a  breeze  stirred  in  the  trees ; 
wild  pigeons  in  hundreds  flew  hither  and  thither ;  occa- 
sionally a  young  antelope  or  a  great  jack  rabbit  leaped 
across  the  plains.  I  hardly  gave  them  a  thought.  My 
mind  dwelt  upon  an  imaginary  tin  of  pine-apple  chunks 
somewhere  in  the  distance  ! 

Peach  Springs  showed  no  trace  of  materializing  when 
required.  There  was  no  sign  of  it  anywhere  where  it 
should  have  been.  I  stopped  at  a  wooden  shack  near 
the  roadside.    There  was  a  Bowser  pump  outside  the  door. 

An  old  man  with  a  goat's  beard  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  A  couple  of  gallons  of  gas,  please,"  I  shouted,  and 
while  he  pumped  it  in  I  surveyed  the  surroundings ; 
there  was  another  little  shack  not  far  away  and  two 
dirty-looking  Mexican  women  were  sitting  down  out- 
side. Here  and  there,  round  about,  lay  rubbish,  pieces 
of  timber,  tin  cans  and  other  debris. 

"  Guess  you  get  mighty  lonesome  here,  dad  ?  " 

"  Aw,  dunno,"  he  replied.  "  Bin  here  nigh  on  forty 
years.     Guess  I  got  purty  well  accustomed  to  it  now." 

"  Forty  years  !  I  should  say  so  !  .  .  .  Thanks.  Say, 
how  far's  Peach  Springs  from  here  ?  " 

"  Peach  Springs  ?  This  is  Peach  Springs.  You're 
in  it  right  here,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  shack. 

"  This  Peach  Springs  ?  I  thought  it  was  a  big  town 
with  umpteen  thousand  people  in  it." 


198      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

"  And  so  it  was,  till  they  moved  it." 

"  Moved  it  ?  "  I  stood  aghast  at  the  thought  of  such 
a  horrible  thing. 

"  Aye,  I  mind  the  time  when  there  was  over  40,000 
people  in  Peach  Springs.  They'd  all  come  in  a  heluva 
sweat  lookin'  for  gold,  and  what's  more,  they  found  it. 
Then  the  gold  begun  to  give  out  until  in  the  end  there 
warn't  none  at  all,  an'  when  the  gold  went  the  people 
went  with  it.  I'm  the  only  one  as  didn't  go  and  I  guess 
I'm  not  much  concerned  about  it  neither.  Provisions 
and  gas  and  oil  are  better'n  grubbin'  after  gold  all  yer 
life." 

"  Provisions  ? "  I  queried.  "  Got  any  pineapple 
chunks  ?  " 

"  Sure  thing.     Got  everything." 

Overcome  with  emotion,  I  filled  my  pockets  with  tinned 
fruit  and  biscuits. 

That  night  my  camp  fire  burned  in  a  glorious  spot 
sheltered  by  high  cliffs.  Fuel  was  scarce,  there  were 
just  a  few  dried-up  bushes  to  burn,  but  it  was  splendid, 
camping  there  with  the  beautiful  clear  sky  above,  the 
stars  shining  as  I  had  never  known  them  shine  before. 

On  again  we  went  at  dawn.  This  time  it  was  to  leave 
behind  the  cedar  forests  and  the  towering  canyons.  We 
were  getting  near  the  fringe  of  the  great  arid  desert  that 
stretches  for  nearly  300  miles  to  the  heart  of  California. 
Gradually  the  ground  became  flat,  almost  as  flat  as  the 
proverbial  pancake.  On  it  grew  no  vegetation  at  all,  save 
the  scanty  sage-brush  that  can  flourish  where  all  other 
things  die.  Miles  away,  but  clear  enough  to  be  only  a 
few  hundred  yards,  rose  ranges  of  saw-toothed,  evil-look- 
ing mountains,  as  barren  as  barrenness  could  be.  Ahead 
lies    the   trail    stretching    beyond    the    traveller's    vision 


THE  MOHAVE  DESERT  199 

to  the  horizon.  On  the  left  runs  a  fence.  Beyond  the 
fence  is  the  Santa  Fe*  Railway.  The  telegraph  poles  and 
the  distant  mountains  are  the  only  objects  that  break 
the  interminable  flatness.  The  sky  is  cloudless  and  the 
heat  of  the  sun  intense.  At  every  five  or  ten  miles  a 
stop  is  made  to  drink  water  from  the  bag  on  the  handle- 
bar.    One  has  a  glorious  thirst  in  these  parts. 

Mile  after  mile  goes  by,  and  hour  after  hour.  The 
sun  grows  higher  in  the  heavens,  its  rays  pour  down  upon 
my  back  with  unrelenting  fury.  When  shall  we  get 
to  anywhere  ?  The  inner  man  grows  weary  of  fasting 
in  this  infernal  heat.  A  massive  rock,  lying  all  alone  in 
the  vast  plain  on  the  right,  asks :  "  Why  will  ye  not 
repent  ?  "  Oh,  the  irony  of  it !  The  man  who  painted 
that  rock  was  a  fanatic,  but  he  knew  what  he  was  about. 

Kingman  at  last !  Kingman  meant  breakfast.  Break- 
fast meant  water  melons  and  coffee  and  pies  and  other 
good — nay,  beautiful — things.  Kingman  meant  drinks 
and  ices  and  sundries  to  one's  heart's  content,  and  one's 
pocket's  contents. 

On  again  I  pursue  my  way,  feeling  like  a  new  man. 
Next  stop  Yucca,  thirty  miles.  Gee !  the  sun  is  hot. 
Nearly  eleven.  My  stars,  what  will  it  be  like  at  one  ? 
Everything  is  sand  now — underneath,  around,  every- 
where. The  wheels  tear  it  up  in  clouds  as  they  skim 
through.  Sometimes  they  slip  sideways  in  it  and  flounder 
about,  trying  to  grip  on  to  something  firm.  Sometimes 
we  slither  over  altogether  but  the  sand  is  soft  and  spills 
do  not  disturb  one  much.  But  the  sun — I  wish  it  would 
stop  working  a  bit ! 

Vegetation  appears  once  again,  but  of  a  very  strange 
kind.  It  is  a  vegetation  that  is  different  from  any  we 
know  in  Europe.     It  is  at  the  same  time  grotesque,  mysteri- 


200      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

ous,  ridiculous,  wonderful  and  luxurious.  It  is  desert 
vegetation.  You  have  always  thought  of  deserts  as 
devoid  of  every  sign  of  vegetation  ?  It  is  not  so  in  the 
great  deserts  of  America.  Life  abounds  but,  as  if  in 
recompense  for  the  privilege  of  living,  it  has  to  take  strange 
forms.  Yet,  if  they  are  strange,  it  is  only  in  comparison 
with  the  vegetation  to  which  in  temperate  climes  we  are 
accustomed.  The  unnumbered  varieties  of  cactus  plants 
and  trees  are  in  reality  beautiful  and  strange  beyond 
description.  They  are  always  green,  always  fresh  and 
always  beautiful.  It  is  a  kind  of  "  Futurist "  beauty 
that  adorns  them.  The  cactus  trees,  for  instance,  have 
their  leafless  branches  projecting  almost  at  right  angles 
to  the  trunk,  and  they  in  turn  branch  out  in  a  similar 
manner,  presenting  a  grotesque  appearance.  The  tall  and 
beautiful  Ocatilla — one  can  almost  refer  to  it  as  a  desert 
"  shrub  " — springs  directly  from  the  ground  like  several 
long  waving  feelers  bunched  together  below  and  spread 
apart  above.  The  prickly-pear,  with  its  needle-covered 
fleshy  leaves,  each  one  joined  on  to  another  without 
stem  or  stalk,  presents  a  most  weird  aspect.  Even  the 
modest  and  unassuming  sage-brush,  the  poor  down- 
trodden "  John  Citizen  "  of  every  desert,  seems  to  have 
been  arranged  on  the  barren  plain  in  regular  rectangles 
and  rows,  spaced  at  mathematical  distances  apart. 

The  secret  is  that  each  one  has  to  think  of  only  one 
thing — water.  Each  cactus  plant  or  tree  is  provided 
in  itself  with  the  means  of  storing  a  reserve  of  water. 
Moisture  is  the  one  great  thing  that  dominates  them  all. 
That  being  so,  the  constitution  of  desert  vegetation  has 
to  be  altogether  different  from  that  of  humid  climates 
just  as  our  constitutions  would  have  to  be  entirely  different 
if  we  lived  on  Mars,  where  there  is  hardly  any  water  at  all. 


THE   MOHAVE   DESERT  201 

This  was  truly  a  world  of  wild  fancy.  It  would  be 
ridiculous — I  thought — to  try  to  explain  a  scene  like 
this  to  people  who  had  never  seen  anything  but  ordin- 
ary trees  and  plants  and  flowers.  They  would  laugh 
in  scorn  when  I  tried  to  describe  to  them  that  strange 
conglomeration  of  fanciful  shapes,  those  mad-looking 
cactus  trees  with  every  joint  dislocated,  those  weird 
Ocatilla  waving  their  long  slender  arms  twenty  and  thirty 
feet  above  the  ground.  And  look  at  that  great  organ- 
pipe  cactus  over  there,  nothing  but  a  huge  light-green 
fleshy  trunk,  with  two  or  three  other  trunks  all  perfectly 
straight  and  perfectly  vertical  on  top  of  it !  How  could 
one  possibly  describe  things  like  that  ? 

"  With  a  Watch-Pocket  '  Carbine,'  of  course.  What 
else  ?  "  I  mused  and  stopped  to  take  out  my  camera 
from  the  toolbox.  It  was  not  so  easily  done  as  said. 
The  toolbox  lid  seemed  red-hot  to  my  fingers.  I  could 
not  bear  my  hand  on  the  top  of  the  tank  even. 

Oh,  water,  water :  how  beautiful  thou  art !  Even 
when  imbibed  under  hand-pressure  from  a  smelly  can- 
vas water-bag  ! 

Could  it  ever  get  any  hotter  than  this  ?  The  only 
way  was  to  keep  going,  the  faster  the  better.  Then  the 
heat,  with  frequent  drinks,  was  just  tolerable.  When 
I  stopped,  it  was  like  being  plunged  suddenly  into  a  great 
furnace.  Never  mind ;  there  would  be  ice-creams  at 
Yucca.  On  again,  as  fast  as  we  can,  leaping  over  gullies, 
ploughing  through  the  loose  white  sand.  Lower  and 
lower  we  get  as  we  travel.  The  gradient  is  not  notice- 
able, for  there  are  ups  and  downs  all  the  way,  and  ridges 
of  hills  here  and  there.  All  the  same,  we  are  making 
a  steady  descent.  In  a  couple  of  dozen  miles  we  shall 
cross  the  River  Colorado.     That  morning  we  were  over 


202      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

a  mile  high  above  it.  Now  we  are  at  its  level.  That 
explains  the  increasing  heat  the  further  we  go,  and  further 
on  for  hundreds  of  miles  the  road  lies  but  a  few  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  sea  ;  in  places  it  is  actually  below  it. 

In  the  distance  appear  trees — poplars,  eucalyptus 
and  cedars.  They  denote  the  small  ramshackle  town 
of  Yucca,  like  an  island  in  the  plain.  The  trail  widens 
into  a  road.  Living  beings  are  seen,  horses,  carts  and 
motor  cars.  It  is  the  civilized  world  once  again.  What 
Yucca  does  for  a  living  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know.  It  cannot 
certainly  be  a  ranching  town.  Probably  there  is  a  little 
gold  in  the  vicinity  and  it  is  a  small  trading  centre.  Prob- 
ably it  is  more  important  as  a  thirst-quenching  centre  ! 

A  short  stop  and  on  we  went  again  into  the  desert, 
leaving  behind  us  the  little  oasis,  and  plunging  ahead 
into  a  still  hotter  region.  The  strange  cactus  trees  and 
desert  plants  gathered  round  once  more.  Rougher  and 
rougher  the  road  became.  The  sand  gave  place  to  sharp 
loose  grit  interspersed  with  rocks  and  jutting  boulders. 
As  it  did  so,  gradually  the  luxurious  vegetation  of  the 
desert  grew  thinner  and  the  dull  miserable  sage-brush 
took  its  place.  The  trail  divided  up  into  two  deep  and 
solitary  ruts  and  in  between  them  lay  loose  shale  and 
grit  that  absolutely  defied  progress.  The  wheels  would 
sink  in  freely  and  churn  the  road  up  aimlessly.  It  was 
necessary  then  to  ride  in  one  of  the  ruts.  Where  they 
were  broad  this  was  not  difficult,  but  when  they  narrowed 
and  deepened  a  spill  was  almost  bound  to  occur  if  one 
wobbled  but  a  fraction  of  an  inch  from  the  dead  centre 
of  the  rut.  Negotiating  a  road  of  this  nature  was  some- 
thing new  in  the  sport  of  motor-cycling,  but  it  was  exas- 
perating. I  was  to  find  later  that  riding  continuously 
in  a  rut  was  like  riding  on  a  greasy  road,  in  that  the  more 


THE   MOHAVE  DESERT  203 

carefully  one  went  and  the  more  timid  one  grew,  the 
more  dangerous  did  the  riding  become.  Time  and  time 
again  I  was  thrown  off  by  fouling  the  side  of  the  rut  and 
plunged  headlong  over  the  handlebars  into  the  road. 
The  slower  I  went  the  more  often  was  I  thrown.  If  I 
travelled  about  ten  or  twelve  miles  an  hour  I  could  main- 
tain my  balance  by  using  my  feet  where  necessary.  Riding 
at  that  speed,  however,  was  out  of  the  question.  It  was 
better  to  go  faster  and  risk  the  frequent  spills  than  to  be 
roasted  alive.  So  I  went  faster.  The  faster  I  went 
the  easier  was  it  to  maintain  balance  naturally,  because 
the  steering  became  more  sensitive  and  only  a  very  small 
movement  of  the  handlebars  within  the  limits  of  the 
rut  would  suffice  to  correct  any  deviation  from  perfect 
balance.  I  found  that  at  between  thirty-five  and  forty 
miles  an  hour  it  was  moderately  easy  to  follow  the  rut 
through  the  swerves  in  its  course.  But  even  then,  occa- 
sionally there  would  be  a  nasty  spill,  a  few  bent  levers 
and  some  scratches.  (I  learned  a  week  or  so  later  from 
"  Cannonball  Baker,"  the  famous  American  racer,  that 
he  travels  in  these  same  ruts  at  between  fifty  and  sixty  !) 
Here  and  there  the  trail  would  cross  a  "  wash "  or 
a  dried-up  lake  bed  and  then  the  sand  regime  would 
reappear.  And  ever  did  death  speak  from  all  around 
— desolation  in  bewildering  intensity  almost  cried  aloud 
from  the  fire-swept  waste  that  lay  all  about  me.  Often 
I  passed  the  remains  of  derelict  cars  left  at  the  side  of 
the  road  ;  sometimes  it  was  a  mudguard  or  a  spring, 
a  tyre  or  a  broken  wheel ;  sometimes  it  was  a  complete 
chassis,  stripped  of  everything  that  could  be  taken  away. 
For  what  could  be  done  in  a  region  like  this  if  the  break- 
down were  too  large  ?  Nothing  but  to  push  the  car 
off  the  road  and  leave  it   to  its  fate.     Almost  without 


204      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY   MOTOR-CYCLE 

exception  the  remains  were  of  Ford  cars.  That  shows 
the  wisdom  of  travelling  in  a  machine  that  bears  no 
great  loss  if  it  is  damaged  or  forsaken  ! 

Occasionally  I  passed  a  gigantic  heap  of  small  tins 
all  rusty  and  forlorn.  I  was  puzzled  at  first.  How  did 
they  get  there  ?  And  why  had  they  been  heaped  up  if 
they  were  the  discarded  food-tins  of  passing  travellers  ? 
But  no.  They  are  the  sole  remains  of  a  "  mushroom  w 
town  of  the  West.  In  them  one  can  picture  the  sudden 
growth  and  the  almost  equally  sudden  decay  of  a  settle- 
ment that  thrived  while  there  was  gold  to  be  found  in 
the  vicinity. 

Here  and  there,  too,  were  little  heaps  of  bones,  bleached 
white  as  snow — the  remains  of  a  horse  or  a  cow  that 
had  strayed.  To  lose  oneself,  be  it  man  or  animal,  is 
sure  death  in  the  Mohave  Desert. 

It  is  just  mid-day.  The  sun  is  vertically  above.  It 
beats  down  on  my  shoulders  and  dries  up  the  skin  of 
my  hands.  My  hair,  over  which  I  had  never  worn  a  hat 
since  I  left  New  York,  is  bleached  to  a  light  yellow  colour 
and  stands  erect,  stiff  and  brittle.  The  alkali  sand  and 
dust  have  absorbed  all  the  moisture  from  my  fingers 
and  gradually  cracks  and  cuts  are  developing  in  my  finger 
tips  and  at  the  joints.  I  find  it  easier  to  grasp  the  handle- 
bars with  the  palms  of  my  hands  alone.  My  clothes 
are  saturated  with  dust  and  my  trench  boots  are  cut 
and  scratched,  with  the  seams  broken  away  ;  the  right 
sole  has  pulled  away  and  threatens  to  come  off  altogether 
unless  carefully  used.  I  feel  that  the  sooner  I  get  out 
of  the  Mohave  Desert  the  better  it  will  be  for  me. 

But  the  heat !  It  seems  to  know  no  shame,  no  pity. 
It  is  terrific.  Every  five  miles  I  stop  and  drink  from 
the  water  bag.     There  is  just  enough  to  carry  me  to  the 


THE  MOHAVE  DESERT  205 

next  stop.  For  the  first  time  I  begin  to  long  for  shelter 
from  the  burning  rays.  There  is  none  around  anywhere 
— not  as  far  as  the  horizon.  I  must  push  on  quickly.  .  .  . 
The  rut  suddenly  breaks  and  swerves  away.  .  .  . 
Crash  !  .  .  .  Up  again,  lose  no  time.  On  once  more  ; 
what  matter  if  the  footbrake  doesn't  work  ?  A  motor- 
cycle is  made  to  go,  not  to  stop  ! 

In  front,  to  the  left,  rise  pinnacles  of  purple  granite. 
They  stick  up  sharply  into  the  sky  like  the  teeth  of  a 
great  monster  grinning  over  its  prey.  They  are  the 
"  Needles,"  and  they  fringe  the  Colorado  River.  What 
a  glorious  sight  it  will  be  to  see  a  river  again,  with  water 
flowing  in  it. 

Now  on  the  horizon  appears  a  blotch  of  green.  Its 
beauty  in  that  yellow  wilderness  is  beyond  description. 
It  is  the  green  of  the  stately  poplar  trees  that  surround 
the  railway  station  of  Topock.  That  is  where  the  road 
and  the  railway  and  the  river  all  meet,  and  where  we 
leave  Arizona  and  enter  the  State  of  California.  Thank 
Heaven  it  is  not  far  away.  The  pinnacles  rise  higher 
and  higher,  the  little  oasis  grows  bigger  and  bigger,  and 
the  trees  greener  and  taller. 

At  last !  Lizzie's  rattle  is  silent.  We  come  to  rest 
under  a  great  shelter  thatched  with  straw  that  has  been 
erected  by  the  roadside  opposite  the  restaurant — the 
only  building  in  the  town  beside  the  railway  station. 
A  few  yards  further  on  was  a  massive  steel  bridge  400 
yards  long  that  spanned  the  Colorado.  Beyond  lay 
California,  but  I  was  satisfied  with  Arizona  and  the  straw- 
thatched  shelter  for  an  hour  or  two. 

*  *  *  *  * 

At  two  we  crossed  the  great  bridge.     What  good  fortune 


206      ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

would  California  bring,  I  wondered.  It  brought  even 
worse  roads  than  I  had  seen  in  Arizona.  There  still 
remained  over  200  miles  of  desert  to  be  crossed.  The 
trail  was  very  rough,  like  a  mountain  track  at  the  start, 
full  of  ups  and  downs  and  swerves  and  washes.  Twelve 
miles  further  on  I  arrived  at  the  town  of  Needles,  so 
tired  and  hot  that  I  decided  to  abandon  travel  until 
the  evening.  Then  I  would  ride  out  into  the  desert  and 
make  my  bed  under  the  steel-blue  sky.  I  was  too  enam- 
oured of  the  wonderful  sunsets  and  the  glorious  sun- 
rises of  the  open  plain  to  allow  them  to  pass  unseen  in  a 
musty,  stuffy  hotel  bedroom. 

Needles,  I  was  surprised  to  find,  was  very  much  bigger 
than  I  had  expected.  It  is  now  a  good-sized  town  and 
its  main  street  a  bustle  of  activity.  After  disposing  of 
a  steak  at  a  Chinese  restaurant,  I  bought  a  book  and 
retired  to  the  square.  There  I  took  off  my  tunic,  rolled 
up  my  shirt  sleeves  and  lay  on  the  grass  beneath  the  tall, 
thick  palm  trees  and  whiled  away  the  hot  afternoon 
hours. 

At  evening  as  the  setting  sun  was  drawing  a  magic 
cloak  over  the  tropical  sky,  I  stole  out  of  Needles  along 
the  lonesome  trail  that  I  had  learnt  to  love.  Except 
for  low-lying  mountains  all  around,  there  was  nothing 
but  the  everlasting  sand  and  sage-brush.  Behind  lay 
the  gigantic  plain  and  across  it,  like  a  silver  snake,  crept 
the  great  silent  river.  It  was  the  most  impressive  scene 
that  I  have  ever  beheld  from  my  bedroom  window.  My 
mattress  was  the  sand  with  a  waterproof  sheet  laid  upon 
it.  Never  did  Monte  Cristo  with  all  his  wealth  sleep 
in  such  luxury  as  that. 

He  who  all  his  life  has  associated  the  dawn  with  the 
soft  greetings  of  birds  and  the  mellow  noises  of  awaken- 


In  the  Mohave  Desert. 


Cactus  Trf.es    near  San  Bernardino,  California. 


THE  MOHAVE  DESERT  207 

ing  nature,  is  struck  at  once  with  the  vast  difference  of 
desert  countries.  I  have  read  that  in  unexplored  Africa 
and  South  America,  the  dawn  is  heralded  by  a  mighty 
tumult  of  millions  of  voices,  a  great  chorus  of  every  soul 
in  the  great  populace  that  lives  in  forest  and  jungle. 
In  the  Mohave  Desert  the  majesty  of  the  dawn  unfolds 
itself  in  deathly  silence.  The  entire  absence  of  sound 
of  any  kind  is  awe-inspiring,  almost  weird,  and  the  observer 
can  but  watch  and  wonder  at  it  as  he  sees  the  whole 
firmament  set  ablaze  with  colours  and  shades  that  he 
never  imagined  existed,  and  gradually  the  silent  grandeur 
of  the  spectacle  is  revealed. 

It  was  with  just  such  feelings  that  from  my  bed  I  watched 
the  unfolding  of  another  day  from  the  depths  of  the 
great  silent  plain  which  lay  beyond  that  thread  of  silver 
in  the  distance. 

And  then,  on  again.  There  was  a  low  range  of  moun- 
tains ahead  to  be  crossed.  It  was  slow  work  and  very 
tiring.  The  constant  looseness  of  the  surface,  the  need 
for  everlastingly  keeping  one's  eyes  glued  to  the  trail, 
and  the  terrible  monotony  of  it  all  for  mile  after  mile, 
made  me  long  all  the  more  for  a  sight  of  the  orange 
groves  and  the  blue  sea  beyond  that  to-morrow  I  might, 
if  nothing  unforeseen  happened,  enjoy.  Thus  went 
fifteen,  twenty,  thirty  miles.  The  first  halt  was  reached. 
It  was  only  a  railway  station,  a  "  hotel,"  a  garage  and 
two  or  three  houses,  but  it  meant  breakfast,  and  a  good 
one  at  that,  for  the  journey  that  was  ahead.  Feeding 
over,  out  we  went  once  more  to  brave  the  ruts  and  the 
rocks  and  the  sand,  for  miles  and  miles  unending.  The 
morning  sun  grows  slowly  into  a  midday  sun. 

We  have  been  climbing  a  little.  Low-lying  ranges  of 
absolutely  bare,  purple-brown  jagged  hills  seem  to  hem 


208      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

us  in.  Soon  we  shall  be  across  them.  Beyond  there 
will  be — what  ?  More,  perhaps.  The  road  here  has 
been  "  oiled,"  that  is,  the  sand  has  been  levelled  and 
then  crude  mineral  oil  poured  on.  This  hardens  the 
crust  and  prevents  the  road  from  blowing  away,  giving 
to  the  uninitiated  the  impression  of  well-laid  macadam. 
It  is  a  relief  after  the  loose  sand,  and  it  looks  so  strange 
for  a  black,  broad  highway  to  be  going  across  a  desert ! 
It  does  not  last  long,  but  comes  and  goes  in  patches.  Where 
it  does  appear  it  is  often  lumpy  and  cut  into  grooves  and 
slices.  Nevertheless  it  is  welcome.  .  .  .  The  road  turns 
when  it  reaches  the  crest,  continues  for  a  few  yards,  and 
then  .... 

A  marvellous  sight  has  suddenly  appeared,  viewed 
from  the  meagre  height  at  which,,  we  stand.  A  great 
plain  lies  beneath  and  before  us,  greater  and  flatter  and 
more  desolate  than  my  imagination  could  ever  have 
conceived.  All  around  it  are  mighty  saw-toothed  ranges 
of  mountains  pressing  close  upon  the  horizon  and  fading 
away  into  nothingness.  In  it  is  nothing,  not  a  promi- 
nence of  any  kind,  save  the  omnipresent  sage-brush  that 
seems  to  stretch  in  streaky  uniformity  like  a  great  purple- 
brown  veil  above  the  cream-white  sand.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  go  on — to  do  anything  but  stop  and  wonder  that 
over  so  great  an  area  nature  can  be  so  desolate.  It  is 
wonderful,    mystifying    in   its   intensity. 

Did  I  say  there  was  no  prominence  ?  What  are  those 
two  minute  specks  away  over  there  in  the  heart  of  the 
plain  ?  They  must  be  a  tremendous  distance  away,  but 
in  their  very  minuteness  they  are  conspicuous.  It  is 
obvious  that  they  are  not  there  by  the  design  of  Nature. 
...  As  I  look,  a  tiny  white  speck  appears  further  still 
to  the  left,  as  though  it  emerged  from  behind  the  range 


THE   MOHAVE   DESERT  209 

of  mountains  that  I  have  just  crossed.  Look !  There  is 
a  short  black  tail  behind  it.     It  is  a  train  ! 

Slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  it  moves  across  the 
great  wilderness.  The  black  specks  then  are  stations, 
small  man-made  oases  where  water  has  been  brought  to 
the  surface.  Yes,  it  is  true.  Ten  minutes  elapse,  and 
the  little  white  speck  merges  into  the  little  black  speck. 
Thus  are  sizes  and  speeds  dwarfed  into  insignificance  when 
Nature  has  the  mood  to  show  her  magnitude  ! 

On  again  we  go,  spinning  smoothly  awhile  over  the 
smooth,  oiled  road.  It  stops  in  a  mile  or  two  and  leaves 
nothing  but  the  old  heart-rending,  twisting,  wayward 
ruts  and  sand  to  guide  us.  Hours  go  by.  They  are 
hours  of  wild  effort,  maddening  heat,  and  interminable 
boredom.  Generally,  every  fifteen  or  twenty  miles, 
there  was  a  railway  station  and  a  restaurant  where  one 
could  stop  for  drinks,  ices,  and  petrol. 

Four  o'clock  saw  me  in  Ludlow,  a  small  town,  larger 
than  the  other  stops.  I  was  dead  tired.  Come  what 
may,  I  was  not  going  to  work  myself  to  death.  I  had 
done  200  miles  since  daybreak.  That  was  enough  for 
anyone  in  a  country  like  this. 

At  eight  o'clock  I  set  out  with  Lizzie  in  the  deepening 
twilight  to  find  a  resting-place  for  the  night.  The  road 
was  oiled,  but  in  most  places  the  sand  of  the  desert  had 
blown  over  it,  covering  it  for  several  inches  in  depth,  and 
sometimes  obliterating  it  from  view  for  many  hundred 
yards. 

"  I  will  sleep  at  the  foot  of  yonder  hill,"  quoth  I,  and 
saw  visions  of  concrete  roads  and  orange  groves  beyond 
the  horizon. 


CHAPTER  XX 
I   REACH  THE  PACIFIC   COAST 

I  saw  something  else  on  the  horizon  too.  It  started 
as  a  little  black  speck  on  the  road,  seeming  to  swerve 
now  and  then  from  one  side  to  another.  It  emitted  a 
strange  noise  that  at  first  was  scarcely  to  be  heard,  but 
increased  until  it  reverberated  indefinitely  from  the  bare 
angular  mountain  ranges. 

It  was  a  motor-cycle ! 

An  inexpressible  feeling  of  sympathy  and  comrade- 
ship surged  through  me,  as  I  realized  that  here  was 
another  fool  starting  to  do  what  one  fool  had  already 
almost  done.  I  wondered  vaguely  whether  he  knew 
what  he  was  doing. 

We  both  stopped,  dismounted,  and  looked  at  each 
other  for  a  few  moments  before  either  spoke.  The  sight 
of  another  motor-cycle  seemed  to  take  both  of  us  by 
surprise.  The  stranger,  a  young  man  of  twenty-four 
or  so,  had  an  old  twin-cylinder  Excelsior  that  looked 
very  much  as  if  it  had  seen  better  days.  I  led  off  the 
conversation. 

"  Where  do  you  reckon  you're  going  on  that  ?  " 

"  New  York." 

"  Ever  done  it  before  ?  " 

"  Nope." 

"  Insured  ?  " 

"  Nope." 

210 


I  REACH  THE  PACIFIC  COAST  211 

"  Pleasure  or  business  ?  " 

"  Both."  Here  he  fumbled  around  a  huge  bruise  on 
his  forehead.  "  Leastways,  that  was  the  idea.  I'm  writ- 
ing it  up  for  the  Adventure  Magazine  when  I'm  through  " — 
and  he  added  guardedly,  "  That  is,  if  I  don't  kill  meself 
with  a  few  more  headers  like  this." 

"  How'd  you  get  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Boy,  I  came  such  a  crash  on  a  bit  of  oiled  road- 
way back  there  by  that  salt-lake  bed.  Don't  remember 
anything  of  it  except  being  chucked  clean  over  the  grips 
about  fifty.  My  Gad,  it  was  some  crash  !  I  came  round 
about  half  an  hour  after.  Say,  Boy,  you  look  out  for 
them  ruts ;  ride  plumb  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
you  may  miss  'em,  'cause  they're  filled  in  and  blown  over 
with  sand.  Jest  the  right  width  of  your  wheel,  they 
are." 

"  Sure,  I've  made  their  acquaintance  already ;  kind 
of  keep  a  man  fit,  don't  they  ?  But,  say,  you've  got 
many  more  like  that  coming  between  here  and  New 
York.  Take  my  tip,  old  man.  If  you've  got  anyone 
depending  on  you  for  a  living  and  you  don't  want  to 
knock  the  '  X '  and  yourself  to  little  pieces,  you  had 
better  go  back  home  right  now  and  tootle  up  and  down 
the  Californian  coast  for  a  holiday.  And  if  you  still 
want  to  get  to  New  York — well,  all  I  can  say  is,  there's 
a  dem  fine  train  service,  and  you'll  find  a  depot  right 
there  in  Ludlow." 

"  Don't  you  worry,  Boy ;  I've  done  a  heap  of  motor- 
cycling in  my  days  and  I  guess  I  don't  get  scared  at  a 
header  or  two,  and  s'long  as  I  can  fix  anything  that  happens 
along,  I  guess  I'll  git  to  Lil  Ole  Noo  York  before  a  couple 
of  weeks  is  gone." 

"  Young  man,"  said  I  in  a  fatherly  tone,   "  you  don't 


212      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

know  what  you're  saying.  You're  talking  blasphemy — 
sheer  heresy.     Your  crash  has  turned  your  wits  a  little." 

"  Thanks,  but  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  by  road, 
and  go  by  road  I  will." 

"  That's  the  spirit,  but  just  a  few  more  words  of  advice. 
Sell  it  and  buy  a  Ford.  Then  you'll  be  able  to  take 
some  one  with  you." 

"  I'm  taking  some  one  already,  Boy.  He's  back  at 
Ludlow.  Shipped  him  on  from  Barstow,  the  road  was 
so  dog-gone  bad  and  he  got  scared  at  the  desert." 

"  What !  You're  taking  him  on  the  carrier  ?  "  I  cried 
aghast. 

"  Sure  enough.     What's  against  it  ?  " 

I  was  speechless.  His  youth  and  innocence  held  me 
spellbound   for  a  moment.     Then   I   burst  forth : 

"  Man,  you're  mad  !  Absolutely  Mad  !  Here,  c'mon, 
Lizzie,  before  it  gets  too  dark  and  before  this  lunatic  gets 
unsafe."  I  kicked  her  into  a  roar.  "  Cheerio,  old  man ! 
Give  my  love  to  the  Angels  to-morrow !  " 

Then  his  open  exhaust  burst  into  a  clatter  and  I  saw 
him  no  more.  I  often  thought  about  him,  though,  and 
wondered  how,  when,  and  where  he  ended  up. 

Next  morning  I  shook  the  desert  sand  from  my  blanket 
for  the  last  time.  By  hook  or  by  crook  I  should  be  sail- 
ing through  the  streets  of  Los  Angeles  before  nightfall. 
I  judged  I  looked  pretty  fierce  on  the  whole.  I  had  no 
looking-glass,  having  left  my  suit-case  to  be  shipped  on 
back  at  Santa  Fe,  but  I  had  the  best  part  of  a  week's 
growth  on  my  chin  and  I  had  not  known  the  joy  of  a 
wash  for  four  days.  My  hair,  my  boots,  my  clothes, 
my  everything,  were  saturated  with  sand  and  dust.  My 
tunic,  which  in  its  earlier  days  had  been  a  green  tweed, 
was  now  white  at  the  back,  bleached  almost  colourless 


I  REACH  THE   PACIFIC   COAST  213 

with  the  sun  and  then  soaked  with  alkali  dust.  In  the 
front  and  below  the  sleeves  it  maintained  something 
approaching  its  original  colour.  My  boots  ?  Well,  they 
had  not  been  off  for  four  days,  and  the  right  sole,  which 
had  been  threatening  revolution,  had  so  many  times 
nearly  tripped  me  up  by  doubling  underfoot,  that  I  had 
removed  it  near  the  instep  with  my  pen-knife  ! 

And  Lizzie  was  in  no  better  condition.  Externally 
she  was  a  mass  of  string,  wire,  insulation-tape,  mud, 
oil,  and  sand.  Internally  she  was  a  bundle  of  rattles 
and  strange  noises.  Everything  was  loose  and  worn ; 
the  sand  had  invaded  her  at  every  point  and  had  multi- 
plied wear  a  thousandfold.  Latterly  the  tappet  rods  had 
had  to  be  cleaned  and  adjusted  over  a  sixteenth  of  an 
inch  every  day  until  there  was  no  more  adjustment  possible. 
The  valve  rockers  were  worn  half-way  through,  some 
more  than  that.  One  had  worn  right  through  until 
it  had  broken  in  the  middle.  I  began  to  be  afraid  that 
the  engine  would  not  hold  out  even  for  the  200  odd  miles 
to  come.  By  handling  her  carefully  and  giving  her 
ample  oil,  I  hoped  to  "  deliver  the  goods  "  and  get  across 
the  remaining  half  of  the  great  desert  tract  that  borders 
on  the  Sierra  Madre  Range  running  parallel  with  the  coast 
from  north  to  south.  Once  across  that  range,  every- 
thing, I  told  myself,  would  change  abruptly,  the  roads, 
the  scenery,  and  the  climate. 

Mile  after  mile  of  rock  and  sand  went  by  with  the 
sweating  hours.  Often  little  patches  of  oiled  road 
appeared,  stayed  awhile,  and  then  miraculously  dis- 
appeared below  the  white,  loose  surface.  Nearly  always 
there  were  two  ruts,  beautifully  sharp  and  well  cut,  sunk 
three  or  four  inches  below  the  rest  of  the  surface,  caused 
by  the  fierce  rays  of  the  midday  sun  converting  the  oiled 


214      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

surface  into  a  plastic  condition  easily  moulded  by  pass- 
ing cars  which,  once  given  the  lead,  follow  blindly  in  the 
others'  "  footsteps."  Many  a  bad  swerve  and  an  occa- 
sional spill  did  I  have  when  my  front  wheel  found  such 
as  this.  But  the  major  portion  of  the  road  was  just 
the  bare,  loose  sand  and  gravel  of  the  desert. 

I  had  by  now  become  so  used  to  my  own  company 
that  the  sense  of  loneliness  almost  disappeared,  and 
I  felt  as  perfectly  at  ease  here  as  anywhere  else.  I  felt 
that  the  great  wastes  had  a  charm,  nay,  even  a  lure, 
that  eclipsed  all  past  sensations  and  gave  a  mental  satis- 
faction that  no  other  phase  of  Nature  could  ever  reveal. 
I  cannot  describe  the  ineffable  something  which  made 
me  love  the  great  solitude  and  the  mighty  spaces,  but 
it  is  there  nevertheless,  and,  like  the  greatest  of  passions, 
it  gives  extremes.  After  one  has  lived  but  a  few  days 
in  the  desert,  either  he  loves  it  passionately  or  he  loathes 
it.    There  is  nothing  in  between. 

On  the  right  there  lies  the  great  "  Death  Valley " 
that  stretches  a  hundred  miles  to  the  north  between  the 
Armagosa  and  the  Paramint  Mountains.  Its  name  is 
suggestive  of  the  many  people  who  have  miserably  per- 
ished of  thirst  in  its  clutches.  It  is  the  remains  of  a 
long-since  dried-up  inland  lake  and  parts  of  it  are  150 
feet  below  the  level  of  the  sea.  There  is  nothing  in  it 
save  bare  rock  and  shifting  alkali  sand,  with  here  and 
there  a  cactus  or  a  little  sage.  The  heat  is  tremendous 
and  the  thermometer  sometimes  rises  to  140°.  In  all, 
not  a  pleasant  place  either  to  live  in  or  to  die.  But 
there  are  those  who  in  the  search  for  gold  live  here  for 
months  at  a  stretch. 

Confound  it !  There  goes  No.  1  cylinder  again.  Why 
doesn't  she  fire  ?    Am  I  to  start  overhauling  the  engine 


I  REACH  THE  PACIFIC  COAST  215 

in  this  terrible  place  ?  I  stop  to  change  a  plug.  .  .  . 
Nothing  doing.  .  .  .  Try  another.  .  .  .  Still  no  result. 
For  ten  minutes  I  tinker  with  red-hot  tools.  Gee !  the 
blessed  machine  will  be  melting  soon  if  we  don't  move 
quick.  In  disgust  I  go  on  again  with  only  three  cylinders 
working.  Past  memories  crowd  into  my  mind,  but  the 
eternal  battle  with  the  loose  sand  suffices  to  keep  them 
out. 

It  was  too  bad,  to  start  playing  pranks  like  this  within 
a  few  hours  of  the  coast.  The  sand  of  the  road  absorbed 
most  of  the  power  I  now  had  left  and  often  I  had  to  change 
down  to  bottom  gear  to  get  along  at  all.  It  was  wonder- 
ful what  a  difference  just  that  one  cylinder  made,  and  it  was 
most  annoying  that  it  should  happen  just  here,  where  the 
earth  was  nothing  more  than  a  confused  mass  of  rocks 
and  sand,  and  the  sun  stood  vertically  above  in  the  sky. 
"  Thank  Heaven,  I've  some  water  left,  if  anything  happens," 
thought  I. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  that  thing  ?  "  I  asked  myself. 
Closer  acquaintance  proved  it  to  be  a  motor  lorry,  dressed 
up  as  a  caravan  and  minus  a  back  axle — a  most  remark- 
able sight  in  most  remarkable  surroundings.  From  the 
numerous  loop-tracks  that  swerved  around  it,  it  had 
evidently  stood  there  many  days.  Its  owner  was  lying 
underneath  on  his  back. 

44  Pretty  place  to  change  a  back  axle,  old  man,"  I 
remarked  intelligently. 

"  Yep.  Not  the  kind  o'  thing  a  feller  does  for  the  fun 
of  it,  either,"  he  retorted,  scrambling  out  from  his  resting- 
place  in  the  sand. 

44  Well,  is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  anyway  ? 
I  don't  quite  like  to  see  a  chap  stranded  in  a  blankety- 
blank    country    like   this    on    blankety-blank   roads  like 


216      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

these."  I  forget  just  the  adjectives  I  used,  but  I  know 
they  were  hardly  of  the  drawing-room  variety.  Imagine 
my  surprise  when  a  feminine  voice  from  inside  chirped 
out : 

"  Yes,  that's  just  about  got  'em  sized  up  !  I've  never 
heard  such  a  mighty  cute  description  of  'em." 

Five  days  they  had  been  there.  The  back  axle  had 
broken  under  the  huge  strain  of  dragging  the  load  through 
the  deep,  loose  sand.  A  passing  car  had  taken  it  to  San 
Bernardino  to  be  repaired,  and  other  passing  cars  had 
kept  them  well  supplied  with  water.  They  expected 
to  have  the  axle  back  the  next  day  and  then  had  nothing 
to  fear.  As  I  could  do  nothing  for  them,  I  propped 
Lizzie  up  against  the  side  of  the  lorry  and  tried  once  more 
to  persuade  No.  1  cylinder  to  join  hands  with  the  rest. 

After  half  an  hour  of  useless  toil,  I  bade  farewell  to  the 
caravan  and  its  occupants. 

"  Quite  sure  I  can't  do  anything  ?  " 

"  Plumb  sure,  thanks.  Mebbe  we  shall  be  there  before 
you,  y'know," — with  a  wicked  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Then  followed  hours  and  hours  of  ceaseless  toil.  We 
climbed  hills  and  crossed  great  lake-beds  that  glistened 
white  with  a  dazzling  glare.  In  some  of  these  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  in  the  vast  stretch  of  alkali  deposit 
where  once,  thousands  of  years  ago,  rested  the  briny 
waters  of  lakes  and  inland  seas — nothing,  not  even  a 
plucky  bush  of  sage-brush,  clinging  valiantly  to  its  life- 
hold. 

We  came  to  Barstow,  a  growing  settlement,  a  railway 
centre  and  with  great  alkali  factories.  Here,  after  nearly 
100  miles'  running,  I  had  a  substantial  breakfast-lunch- 
dinner  meal  and  filled  my  water-bag  for  the  last  time. 
We  were  nearing  the  end  of  the  Mohave  Desert. 


I   REACH  THE   PACIFIC   COAST  217 

Here  the  trail  turns  sharply  to  the  south  to  "  San 
Berdoo,"  the  colloquial  abbreviation  of  San  Bernardino. 
At  one  time  the  trail  had  crossed  the  desert  by  a  different 
route  altogether,  in  places  almost  100  miles  from  the 
railway  line.  So  many  souls  had  perished  with  the  heat 
and  lack  of  water — perchance  through  some  breakdown 
or  through  losing  their  way — that  later  a  new  road  was 
"  constructed  "  following  closely  the  track  of  the  railway 
so  that  travellers  by  road  need  never  be  in  difficulties 
for  long.  It  is  an  unwritten  law  in  any  of  the  American 
deserts  that  anyone  can  hold  up  a  train  anywhere  if  he 
needs  water  or  supplies  or  other  help.  It  is  willingly 
given,  whether  it  be  a  freight  train  or  the  "  California 
Limited  "  express  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco  ! 

The  San  Gabriel  Mountains  now  rose  high  on  the  hori- 
zon. They  had  but  to  be  crossed,  and  then  all  our  troubles 
would  be  over. 

So  I  thought. 

At  Victorville,  a  growing  town  at  the  north  base  of 
the  range,  the  desert  had  almost  disappeared.  Eucalyptus 
trees  became  strangely  intermixed  with  cactus  trees, 
and  the  aroma  of  their  long,  grey-green  leaves  filled  the 
air  with  a  new  sensation.  It  was  the  approach  of  civiliza- 
tion once  again. 

And  then  followed  the  long,  winding  climb  up  to  the 
Cajon  Pass.  In  the  thick  sand  and  with  only  three 
cylinders,  it  was  hard  work  and  slow  work.  I  thought 
we  should  never  get  to  the  top.  Looking  back,  I  beheld 
a  wonderful  panorama  of  desert  plain,  and  a  glistening 
sea  of  sand ;  looking  forward,  I  saw  just  a  gap  in  the 
great  black  wall  and  a  rocky  pathway  winding  through 
it. 

Are  we  never  going  to  reach  the  summit  ?    We  must 


218      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

have  climbed  nearly  a  mile  high  already,  I  argued  with 
myself,  when,  of  a  sudden,  the  twisting,  rocky  trail  ceased 
to  exist.  It  vanished  like  magic,  and  instead  there  was 
before  us  a  magnificent,  broad  highway  of  smooth,  flat 
concrete  that  made  me  yell  with  delight.  It  was  wonder- 
ful. I  laughed  and  sang  with  childish  glee  to  think  that 
after  4,000  miles  of  mud  and  sand  and  soil  and  rock  and 
rut  and  unspeakable  goat-track,  I  was  at  last  on  a  concrete 
road  once  again,  with  a  surface  like  a  billiard  table.  I 
swerved  madly  from  side  to  side  to  make  sure  those  two 
haunting  ruts  had  really  disappeared,  and  laughed  again 
when  I  found  I  was  not  thrown  off.     It  was  just  glorious. 

One  more  turn,  and  a  great  valley  lay  at  my  feet.  It 
was  green  with  grass  and  the  mountain  sides  were  clothed 
in  pine  trees.  Pine  trees  !  How  beautiful  they  looked  ! 
It  was  surely  a  dream,  a  vision,  a  trick  of  the  imagina- 
tion. There  was  a  long,  winding  gradient  down  into  the 
valley.  I  shut  the  engine  off  and  we  coasted  down  the 
smooth  concrete  without  even  a  whisper  or  a  jar  of  any 
kind.  It  was  like  a  sudden  entry  into  heaven — and 
almost  as  silent. 

There  were  now  seventy  miles  of  concrete  leading 
between  avenues  of  eucalyptus  and  groves  of  orange 
trees  into  Los  Angeles.  Further,  the  road  was  almost 
perfectly  flat,  although  bordered  by  the  San  Gabriel 
range,  and,  with  a  few  right-angle  bends  here  and  there, 
cut  straight  across  from  east  to  west,  with  hardly  a  swerve 
from  the  straight  line. 

Truly  it  was  like  a  new  world,  this  fruit  garden  of 
California.  For  miles  unbroken  save  by  little  avenues, 
one  passed  row  upon  row  of  orange  trees  laid  out  in 
perfect  symmetry  and  exactitude  in  the  rich  flat  soil. 
A  narrow  ditch,  dug  parallel  with  each  row  and  having 


I   REACH  THE   PACIFIC   COAST  219 

small  branches  to  each  individual  tree,  communicated 
with  larger  ditches  along  which  flowed  a  constant  stream 
of  fresh  water  led  from  the  mountain  sides. 

Interspersed  would  be  groves  of  prunes,  peaches,  and 
apples,  then  a  plantation  of  water-melons  and  canta- 
loupes of  all  shapes  and  sizes. 

And  then,  as  if  to  snatch  away  the  enjoyment  of  all 
these  pleasant  things,  a  great  clatter  arose  from  the 
engine.  Something  had  broken  at  last,  and  it  seemed 
that  the  whole  was  a  revolving  mass  of  loose  pieces 
all  knocking  up  against  each  other.  Then,  before  I 
had  been  able  to  slow  down — it  all  happened  in  a  few 
seconds — there  was  a  metallic  thud,  the  back  wheel  locked 
dead,  and  the  machine  dry-skidded  itself  to  rest.  Once 
again  Fate  had  decreed  against  me,  angry  that  I  should 
have  got  so  far  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts. 

Well,  well !  There  was  plenty  of  time  to  spare  now ; 
no  need  to  hurry.  I  sat  down  on  the  grass  at  the  road- 
side in  the  shade  of  an  orange  tree,  ate  two  oranges — 
from  the  tool-box — and  smoked  a  pipe.  Feeling  refreshed 
in  every  sense,  I  then  proceeded  to  take  the  engine  to 
pieces. 

No.  1  piston  had  broken  in  fragments  and  a  large  piece 
had  jammed  between  the  big  end  of  one  of  the  connecting 
rods  and  the  crank-case.  It  was  strange  that  it  had  not 
punched  a  hole  through  it. 

It  was  far  too  long  a  job  to  take  off  the  sump  at  the 
roadside — it  would  have  meant  taking  the  whole  engine 
out  of  the  frame — nearly  a  day's  work — so  I  removed 
as  many  of  the  pieces  of  piston  as  I  could  get  at  through 
the  inspection  window.  The  piston-head  was  floating 
loose  like  a  flat  disc  above  the  small  end.  This  I  removed 
and  packed  the  two  halves  of  the  broken  gudgeon  pin 


220      ACROSS   AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

apart,  so  as  to  guide  the  small  end  up  and  down  in  the 
cylinder.  It  was  impossible  to  remove  the  connecting 
rod  entirely,  even  with  the  cylinder  off,  without  removing 
the  whole  engine  from  the  frame  and  taking  off  the  sump. 

In  a  couple  of  hours  I  was  going  again,  but  very  very 
gingerly,  lest  another  piece  of  piston  should  be  caught 
up  and  cause  another  jamb.  The  noise  of  the  rattle  too 
was  terrific,  and  I  could  hear  the  warning  of  passing  cars 
(of  which  there  were  now  several)  only  when  they  were 
right  behind  me.  Sometimes  it  would  get  suddenly  worse 
and  a  further  disrupture  would  appear  imminent,  and 
then  it  would  go  suddenly  back  again  to  its  normal. 
Thus  we  toiled  for  thirty  miles,  at  an  average  speed  of 
twelve  miles  an  hour. 

At  Ontario — the  towns  were  as  numerous  as  they 
were  prosperous — I  feared  another  and  final  episode. 
A  Ford  car  that  was  passing  slowed  down  to  offer  me 
assistance,  and  putting  Lizzie  in  "  free  engine  "  I  hung 
on  to  his  hoodstays  with  my  right  arm  as  a  tow-rope. 
This  lasted  for  ten  miles,  but  I  could  stand  it  no  longer ; 
my  arms  were  stiff  and  aching  with  the  uneven  strain. 
I  thanked  my  benefactor  and  let  go. 

The  remaining  twenty  miles  into  Los  Angeles  were 
endured  and  accomplished  under  our  own  power  at  about 
eight  miles  an  hour.  The  attention  I  attracted  was 
considerable.  Hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  cars,  buses, 
and  motor-cycles  passed,  hurrying  here  and  there,  their 
tyres  making  a  continuous  low  hum  on  the  concrete 
road.  Luxury,  wealth,  and  happiness  abounded  on  every 
hand.  No  greater  antithesis  to  the  aching  void  of  the 
desert  back  behind  the  mountains  could  be  imagined. 

Every  house  was  a  picture,  a  model  of  cleanliness  and 
homeliness.     The  art  of  building  bungalows  is  reduced 


I  REACH  THE   PACIFIC   COAST  221 

in  California  to  the  irreducible.  It  is  amazing  to  see 
the  variety  of  design  and  the  characteristic  beauty  of 
them  all.  They  made  the  modern  English  bungalows 
of  my  memory  seem  like  enlarged  dog-kennels  by  com- 
parison. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  we  rattled  into  Los 
Angeles,  the  New  York  of  the  Far  West.  Lizzie's  clatter 
rose  above  the  noise  of  the  trolley  cars  that  thronged 
the  busy  streets.  Here  at  last  was  the  long-sought-for 
goal — the  goal  that  for  nearly  three  months  had  urged 
me  westward  !  And  my  steed  ?  Poor  Lizzie,  she  cried 
aloud  for  a  respite  from  the  long,  weary  journey  ! 

Had  I  known  where  the  Henderson  Agency  was  I 
could  not  have  found  my  way  there  quicker.  It  seemed 
as  if  Lizzie's  instincts  had  taken  her  there  just  as  a  lost 
cat,  transported  hundreds  of  miles  from  home,  slowly, 
painfully  and  perseveringly  drags  its  tired  body  back 
again. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was  sailing  in  a  side-car 
towards  the  "  Clark  Hotel."  That  was  where  my  hotel 
at  Santa  F6  had  recommended  me  to  go  and  had  forwarded 
my  baggage. 

We  drew  up  at  the  door  of  a  palatial  establishment — 
the  "  posh "  hotel  of  Los  Angeles.  Once  again,  after 
many  a  long  day,  my  knees  began  to  quake.  Brushing 
by  the  magnificent  door-porter,  I  swung  into  the  luxurious 
lounge.  Afternoon  tea  was  just  finishing.  I  strolled 
across  to  the  reception  desk,  trying  hard  to  maintain 
an  air  of  complete  innocence  as  regards  my  personal 
appearance.  I  endeavoured  to  assume  an  attitude  of 
perfect  congruity  with  my  surroundings. 

To  say  the  least,  I  was  lamentably  unsuccessful !  Little 
groups  of  people   chatting   together   stopped  and  gazed 


222      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

at  the  dishevelled  intruder.  Imperfectly  disguised  smirks 
were  evident  on  all  sides.  Pages,  bell-boys,  and  porters 
quickly  brought  their  grinning  faces  to  attention  as  I 
glowered  upon  them  in  turn.     At  last  I  reached  the  desk. 

"  You've  got  some  baggage  for  me,  I  believe — a  couple 
of  grips — sent  from  the  4  Montezuma '  at  Santa  Fe. 
Shepherd  is  my  name." 

Meanwhile  the  manager  appeared  on  the  scene.  Rest- 
ing himself  with  both  hands  on  the  desk  as  if  to  steady 
himself  against  any  possible  shock  that  he  might  receive 
from  the  contemplation  of  so  strange  a  spectacle,  he  gazed 
at  me  in  silence.  Then,  below  his  breath,  he  found  words 
to  convey  his  astonishment : 

"  My  Gad  !  "  he  said,  and  paused  deliberately.  Then 
he  continued  explosively,  (i  I've  seen  some  sunburnt  faces 
in  my  time,  but  never,  never,  never  have  I  seen  a 
man  anywhere  with  a  face  like  yours !  " 

"  It's  nice  of  you  to  say  so,"  I  retorted. 

"  Heavens,  man ! "  he  continued,  ignoring  the  inter- 
ruption, "  your  hair's  nearly  white  and  your  chest  is 
nearly  black.     Where  in  hell  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  stay  there  long,"  I  replied,  "  no  longer 
than  was  necessary  to  get  here  from  New  York." 

44  New  York !  "  (I  was  quite  expecting  him  to  say 
"  Whar's  that  ?  "  but  evidently  its  existence  was  known 
in  well-informed  circles  in  Los  Angeles).  "  Have  you 
walked  it  or  swum  it  or  what  ?  " 

"  Only  motor-cycled  it,  Old  Bean  !  " 

41  Well,  now,  if  that's  not.  .  .  .  Here ;  I'll  give  you 
your  key.     Go  and  have  a  good  bath  right  now." 

I  thanked  him.  A  porter  had  got  my  bags  and  stood 
waiting.  His  face  was  the  essence  of  staid  immobility 
when  I  looked  at  him.     Together  we  went  in  the  elevator 


I   REACH  THE   PACIFIC   COAST  223 

to  the  nth  floor.  Eager  to  see  what  I  really  did  look 
like,  my  first  indulgence  was  to  look  at  myself  in  the 
glass,  a  thing  I  had  not  done  for  many  a  day. 

It  certainly  was  a  shock.  I  could  barely  recognize 
myself.  I  really  was  the  most  remarkable  creature  I  had 
ever  seen.  I  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into  uncon- 
trollable laughter.  The  hitherto  straight-faced  porter 
did  likewise,  and  we  both  felt  the  better  for  it. 

A  hot  bath  !  Wonder  of  wonders !  I  tumbled  into 
it  and  the  past  was  forgotten  in  the  inexpressible  ecstasy 
of  the  present. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
LOS  ANGELES  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO 

In  full,  the  real  name  of  Los  Angeles  is  "  La  Puebla 
de  Nuestra  Sefiora  la  Reina  de  los  Angeles  " — "  The  City 
of  our  Lady  the  Queen  of  the  Angels."  Founded  by 
Spanish  settlers  about  1780,  it  is  built  upon  the  plains 
that  roll  from  the  foothills  of  the  Sierra  Madre  down 
to  the  sea.  It  represents  the  very  last  word  in  the  civili- 
zation of  the  Far  West. 

Los  Angeles  is  a  city  of  which  to  be  proud.  It  is  a 
hustling  metropolis,  but  not  too  hustling.  Its  streets 
are  wide  and  well-laid,  its  buildings  clean,  and  its  resi- 
dences are  just  too  wonderful  for  any  words  of  mine. 
It  is  moreover  the  "  movie  centre "  par  excellence  of 
the  world.  "  Duggie "  and  "Mary"  and  "Charlie" 
are  not  merely  familiar  characters  on  the  screen.  They 
are  your  neighbours.  You  see  them  pass  in  the  streets 
and  go  shopping  with  them  in  the  stores,  like  ordinary 
human  beings.  Undoubtedly  the  development  of  Los 
Angeles  in  recent  years  is  due  largely  to  this  industry. 
So  also  is  the  amazing  beauty  of  its  feminine  population. 
Going  deeper  still,  we  find  that  the  secret  of  its  success 
lies  in  the  wonderful  climate.  There  is  but  one  rainy 
season  in  Los  Angeles  during  the  year,  and  that  is  the 
month  of  December. 

Strange  to  say,  Los  Angeles  is  not  on  the  sea-coast. 
It  is  twelve  miles  to  the  nearest  part  of  the  beach.     This 

224 


LOS  ANGELES  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO        225 

seemed  rather  extraordinary  to  me,  particularly  as  San 
Francisco,  with  whom  they  are  so  eagerly  competing, 
stands  on  one  of  the  finest  and  largest  harbours  in  the 
world.  I  remarked  so  to  the  Times  reporter  one  day. 
"  But  why,"  I  asked,  "  did  they  build  Los  Angeles  so 
far  from  the  sea  ?  "  "Oh  well,  you  see,"  he  replied  in 
all  seriousness,  "  they  had  a  mighty  good  idea  about 
things.  They  reckoned  that  by  the  time  Los  Angeles 
had  really  started  growing  she'd  be  right  on  top  of  the 
Pacific,  so  they  gave  her  a  chance  and  laid  the  place  out 
twelve  miles  away."  "  Oh,  was  that  it  ?  I  see,"  was 
my  innocent  retort. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  there  is  a  network  of  beautiful,  straight, 
concrete  roads  leading  from  the  city  down  to  the  coast 
in  all  directions.  Dozens  of  small  residential  towns 
are  springing  up  amid  this  network  of  roads — towns  that 
some  day  will  be  suburbs  of  Los  Angeles.  At  least  that 
is  the  way  to  think  of  them.  And  the  roads  themselves  ? 
On  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sundays  they  are  like  great 
living  arteries  along  which  flows  an  endless  stream  of 
motor-cars.  The  Calif ornians  know  how  to  enjoy  them- 
selves. There  is  not  one  fragment  of  the  art  of  exterminat- 
ing boredom  that  they  have  not  studied.  They  frivol 
en  masse,  and  to  do  it  they  naturally  choose  the  sea- 
beach  as  a  habitat.  Consequently  the  coast  is  strung 
with  dozens  of  seaside  resorts  of  every  type  and  shade 
of  description,  and  with  only  a  mile  or  two  between  them. 

A  trip  to  one  of  these  "  Los  Angeles  Beaches "  is 
essential  to  the  education  of  the  true  student  of  Southern 
Californian  civilization.  Never  at  any  time  have  I  seen 
public  highways  so  completely  covered  with  motor- 
cars. The  number  seen  approaches  the  incredible,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  astonished  European.     Frequently  there 

Q 


226      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

were  two  almost  endless  rows  of  cars  with  but  a  few  feet 
between  them,  moving  slowly  along  like  a  gigantic  proces- 
sion several  miles  in  length.  Occasionally  there  would  be 
a  hold-up,  and  the  whole  string  of  cars,  one  after  the  other, 
would  pull  up,  each  car  close  upon  its  forerunner.  With- 
out exception,  all  American  cars  are  provided  with  buffers 
at  front  and  rear  so  that  the  car  does  not  suffer  any  dam- 
age when  one  touches  another  even  with  quite  a  severe 
impact.  The  obstruction  is  removed,  and  on  the  proces- 
sion goes  again.  Perhaps  some  unfortunate  is  changing 
a  wheel  at  the  roadside.  Then  there  is  a  big  curve  in 
the  long,  straight  line  where  the  more  fortunate  Fords 
and  Maxwells  and  Buicks  and  Overlands,  etc.,  etc.,  swerve 
round  him.  And  thus  we  carry  on  until  the  coast  is 
reached. 

Naturally  the  first  glimpse  I  had  of  the  Pacific  Ocean 
gave  me  feelings  of  unbounded  joy.  I  even  confess 
to  having  obeyed  the  childish  instinct  to  pick  up  shells 
and  seaweed  on  the  beach.  It  was  a  sight  to  look  upon 
until  the  majesty  of  the  breakers  and  the  infinite  expanse 
of  the  deep  blue  ocean  eclipsed  one's  sense  of  magnitude 
altogether  and  one  became  lost  in  a  world  of  vision  and 
fantasy. 

I  spent  over  a  week  in  Los  Angeles.  During  that  time 
I  was  almost  overwhelmed  with  hospitality.  The  Cali- 
fornians  I  found  easily  the  most  hospitable  people  in 
America.  At  every  hand  I  found  people,  whom  I  had 
neither  seen  nor  heard  of  before,  inviting  me  to  dinner, 
and  taking  me  rides  in  their  cars.  Further,  I  found  I  was 
friends  with  the  police,  and  that  without  any  difficulty 
either !  In  fact,  the  very  air  of  California  is  charged 
with  friendliness.  Consequently,  I  was  sorry  when  the 
day  came  when  I  should  leave  it  behind. 


LOS  ANGELES  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO        227 

Lizzie  was  finished.  She  had  had  a  complete  over- 
haul and  several  parts  of  the  engine  replaced.  Numerous 
telegrams  and  letters  had  been  flashed  across  the  States 
to  the  works  at  Chicago.  They  were  in  vain.  Although 
still  under  the  makers'  guarantee,  they  would  accept 
no  responsibility.  I  paid  the  last  bill  that  made  Lizzie's 
repair  account  just  exceed  the  amount  I  originally  paid 
for  her  three  months  before  and  started  out  to  complete 
the  journey  to  San  Francisco.  I  cannot,  however,  omit 
to  mention  the  extreme  courtesy  and  hospitality  with 
which  I  was  met  at  the  Henderson  Agency  itself.  I 
could  never  at  any  time  wish  for  better  attention  or  hope 
to  make  better  friends  in  foreign  countries  than  I  was 
fortunate  enough  to  do  in  the  "  City  of  Angels."  I  left 
it  with  a  pang  of  regret. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  I  started.  I  found 
to  my  annoyance  that  the  lights  were  defective.  The 
headlight  was  hors  de  combat.  Only  the  "  dimmer " 
remained  to  light  me  on  my  way.  I  had  about  sixty 
dollars  in  my  pocket,  though,  so  I  was  the  perfection  of 
happiness  withal. 

I  am  afraid  those  sixty  dollars  need  some  explanation. 
I  arrived  in  Los  Angeles  a  week  before  with  about  twenty. 
The  Post  Office,  as  ever,  maintained  an  inexplicable 
silence.  Having  now  quite  reconciled  myself  to  being 
mailless  wherever  I  went,  save  for  a  letter  or  two  forwarded 
through  my  friends  in  Cincinnati,  I  decided  to  direct 
my  energies  to  a  profitable  purpose  while  waiting  for 
Lizzie's  return  from  hospital. 

I  scanned  the  newspapers  night  and  day.  Had  I  been 
a  tram-driver  or  a  page-boy  I  could  have  made  a  hit  at 
once  without  any  difficulty.  There  was  also  a  big  demand 
for  boot-blacks,  but  for  anything  that  suited  my  tastes 


228      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

and  inclinations  there  was  nothing.  My  small  stock 
of  "  greenbacks  "  (paper  dollars)  was  slowly  diminishing 
the  while.     Something  had  to  be  done. 

So  I  started  in  on  journalism.  Strange  to  say,  I  made 
money  at  it.  With  the  one  exception  of  Kansas  City, 
it  is  the  only  time  I  ever  have.  Americans  seemed  inter- 
ested in  the  impressions  of  stray  Englishmen  through 
"  God's  own  country."  Better  still,  Californians  seemed 
interested  to  learn  what  one  stray  Englishman  in  particular 
had  to  say  about  California  on  the  one  hand,  and  all 
the  other  States  on  the  other ! 

I  have  the  best  of  reasons  for  believing  that  they  were 
perfectly  satisfied  with  my  report.  So  that  is  how,  after 
paying  for  Lizzie's  operation,  I  still  had  sixty  odd  dollars 
left  to  my  credit. 

The  broad,  well-lighted  city  streets  with  their  trolley- 
cars  soon  were  left  behind,  and  we  rode  for  miles  along 
boulevards  of  wondrous  surface  through  the  residential 
quarters  of  Los  Angeles.  There  were  magnificent  bunga- 
lows of  countless  variety,  the  homes  of  both  poor  and 
rich.  Further  on,  we  passed  through  Hollywood,  the 
home  of  the  homes  of  the  "  movie  "  people.  Occasion- 
ally would  be  seen  a  great  block  of  buildings,  unpreten- 
tious in  architecture  but  palatial  in  extent.  These  were 
the  "  studios  "  where  the  films  are  made  that  instruct, 
amuse,  and  annoy  the  world's  population. 

Finally,  the  last  bungalow  receded  into  the  background 
and  ahead  was  inky  blackness,  a  beautiful  concrete  high- 
way, and  the  faint  forms  of  mountain  ranges.  In  the 
darkness,  dispelled  only  within  a  radius  of  a  few  feet 
by  the  small  pea-lamp  that  remained  in  service,  every- 
thing looked  mystic,  shadowy,  and  strange.  It  seemed 
just  the  night,  just  the  surroundings  for  adventure,  the 


LOS  ANGELES   TO   SAN  FRANCISCO        229 

kind  of  environment  that  makes  the  vagrant  life  so  much 
worth  living. 

The  road  ran  parallel  with  the  coastline,  some  ten  or 
more  miles  away,  but  in  between  lay  the  Santa  Monica 
Mountains,  whose  feet  the  highway  skirted.  Sometimes 
the  hill-sides  were  barren  and  rocky ;  other  times  they 
were  clothed  in  gloomy  cedar  forests.  I  wondered  what 
strange  animals  lurked  in  them  and  whether  I  should 
make  the  acquaintance  of  any  mountain  lions,  bears, 
wolves,  wild  cats  and  other  animals  that  still  are  plentiful 
in  the  mountain  regions  of  California.  Occasionally  a 
car  passed,  the  glare  of  its  headlights  transforming  the 
sombre  surroundings  into  a  still  stranger  world  of  silver 
and  gold.  The  road  for  a  few  moments  changed  to  a 
path  of  glistening  white  leading  to  the  unknown.  And 
then,  when  the  car  dashed  by,  everything  plunged  instan- 
taneously into  a  sea  of  blackness  so  intense  that  it  could 
almost  be  felt. 

I  had  intended  to  polish  off  a  couple  of  hundred  miles 
before  morning.  I  love  nothing  better  than  a  long  night 
ride  on  a  good  road.  But  lack  of  illumination  defied 
my  intentions.  After  thirty  miles  I  pulled  in  to  the  side 
of  the  road  where  a  great  beech  tree  overhung  its  branches, 
and  laid  down  my  ground-sheet  upon  the  soft  bed  of  dead 
leaves  and  nuts  that  lay  beneath. 

It  was  the  softest  mattress  that  I  have  ever  lain  upon 
in  the  open.    In  a  few  minutes  I  was  fast  asleep. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  I  began  to  dream. 
I  dreamt  that  some  great  animal  was  walking  slowly 
around  me  as  I  lay.  It  snuffled  about,  grunting  at  intervals 
in  a  most  dissatisfied  manner.  It  is  not  a  habit  of  mine 
to  dream  about  anything.  I  remember  reflecting  subcon- 
sciously that  I  had  ceased  to  dream  of  bears  and  such 


230      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

like  when  I  reached  the  age  of  four.  Why  then  should 
I  dream  about  them  now  ?  Oh,  hang  the  fellow  1  What 
is  he  making  that  confounded  noise  for  ? 

A  few  minutes  later  I  discovered  that  I  was  not  dream- 
ing at  all.  I  was  wide  awake.  Without  moving  any- 
thing but  my  eyes  I  peered  into  the  darkness  that  still 
enshrouded  everything.  Sure  enough  I  could  make 
out  a  huge  black  mass  somewhere  near  my  feet,  but 
could  not  discern  its  actual  form.  .  .  .  Slowly,  gently, 
I  slipped  my  hand  underneath  my  pillow.  At  last,  I 
thought,  I  shall  have  a  chance  of  shooting  at  something 
bigger  than  prairie-dogs  !  And  then  the  thought  struck 
me,  how  strange  it  was  that  in  all  these  thousands  of 
miles  of  travelling  through  plains  and  deserts  and  forests, 
my  slumbers  had  never  been  interrupted  by  any  nocturnal 
visitor — I  had  not  even  seen  anything  that  could  possibly 
annoy  the  most  domesticated  young  person  who  loves 
his  feather-bed. 

The  big  black  thing  became  more  distinct  as  I  looked. 
His  head  was  down  and  he  was  engaged  in  wondering 
just  exactly  what  my  feet  were  and  who  put  them  there ; 
whether  they'd  be  nice  to  eat  if  vegetable,  and  if  not, 
whether  they  were  animal  or  mineral,  and  if  so,  why  ? 
I  waited  my  time.  He  put  his  head  closer  to  smell  the 
offending  object.  With  a  sudden  kick  I  landed  out 
straight  for  his  nose  with  my  right  foot.  A  yell  rent 
the  air  and  the  big  black  thing  leapt  away  squealing 
into  the  darkness.  A  33  bullet  followed  him  there  just 
for  luck. 

His  squeaks  gradually  died  down  as  he  scampered 
helter-skelter  down  the  road.  It  was  only  a  poor  harm- 
less pig  looking  for  nuts — but  he  had  no  right  to  disturb 
my  slumbers  ! 


LOS  ANGELES  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO        231 

In  the  morning  we  continued  towards  the  west.  The 
end  of  the  Santa  Monica  Range  came  in  sight  and  soon 
the  road  descended  in  long  winding  "  grades  "  towards 
the  sea-coast.  For  the  first  time  by  daylight  I  saw  Cali- 
fornia in  its  true  colours.  Here  I  should  mention  that 
the  height  of  summer  is  not  the  best  time  to  explore 
California.  It  is  in  the  winter  and  the  spring  that  the 
country  is  arrayed  in  its  greatest  glory.  The  lack  of 
rain,  even  near  the  sea-coast,  is  so  marked  that  by  the 
time  summer  is  reaching  its  zenith,  there  is  not  a  green 
blade  of  grass  to  be  seen.  The  face  of  the  country,  where 
it  remains  uncultivated  and  unirrigated,  is  an  eternal 
brown.  At  first  this  brings  a  sense  of  disappointment 
to  the  traveller  who  has  heard  so  much  of  California's 
meadows  of  wonderful  green  mingled  with  the  hues  of 
countless  kinds  of  wild  flowers.  In  summer-time  there 
are  none.  But  in  spring-time,  when  the  sun  has  not 
started  to  blaze  and  the  rain  has  worked  its  miracles, 
the  charm  of  the  country  must  be  beyond  description. 

At  Ventura,  a  pretty  town  on  the  sea-coast,  Lizzie's 
speedometer  ticked  off  the  4,500th  mile.  There  remained 
another  450  to  be  done,  and  the  journey  would  be  at 
an  end.  I  had  little  doubt  now  of  getting  there.  The 
roads  were  so  good  that  motor-cycling  was  child's  play. 
Indeed  it  often  became  monotonous.  At  most  times 
one  could  travel  at  almost  any  speed  of  which  one's  machine 
was  capable,  and  still  the  straight,  flat  roads  would  be  tiring 
to  the  point  of  boredom. 

The  towns  and  villages  one  passed,  however,  were  full 
of  charm.  The  most  famous  road  through  California, 
El  Camino  Real — which  means  "  The  Highway  of  the 
Eang  " — was  one  which  I  was  folio  wingand  had  its  origin 
in  the  old  trail  which  the  historic  padres  followed  in  the 


232      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

romantic  days  of  the  Spanish  occupation  two  and  three 
hundred  years  ago.  This  trail,  blazed  by  the  padres 
"  by  God's  will  for  the  reigning  monarch  of  Spain," 
stretches  for  900  miles  from  Mexico  to  Oregon,  and  along 
it  there  still  stand  the  old  Mission  Houses  that  are  so 
prominent  a  feature  of  Californian  history.  There  are 
nineteen  of  them,  each  "  a  day's  journey  apart,"  and 
each  of  an  entirely  distinct  and  characteristic  type  of 
architecture. 

These  Missions  stand  to-day,  having  with  few  excep- 
tions been  maintained  intact  in  their  original  form,  and 
they  serve  as  beautiful  testimonies  to  the  genius  of  their 
builders.  So  admired  is  their  style  of  architecture  that 
they  are  religiously  copied,  more  so  now  than  ever  before, 
in  public  buildings  and  sometimes  private  dwellings  in 
all  parts  of  the  West.  One  even  sees  railway  stations 
and  tramway  termini  modelled  in  the  form  of  one  of 
these  ancient  Franciscan  Missions  ! 

If  I  was  charmed  with  Ventura,  I  was  thrice  charmed 
with  Santa  Barbara,  another  wonderful  coast  town  of 
modern  style  built  on  an  ancient  site.  The  old  Santa 
Barbara  Mission  stands  away  up  on  the  hill-sides  of  the 
Santa  Ynez  Range  above  the  town  and  looks  over  the 
blue  waters  of  the  Pacific  towards  the  craggy  islands 
of  Santa  Cruz  that  lie  beyond.  For  sheer  delight  of 
climate,  scenery,  and  surroundings  I  would  forsake  any 
home  in  any  town  in  any  country  that  I  have  yet  seen 
to  live  in  Santa  Barbara,  had  I  the  wherewithal  to  do  so. 

Following  the  coast-line,  and  in  many  places  separated 
from  it  only  by  a  ridge  of  stones  or  a  strip  of  vegetation, 
the  road  continues  on  its  happy  way  for  many  miles. 
On  the  left  splash  the  deep  blue  waters  of  the  Pacific.  On 
the  right  rise  steeply  the  Santa  Ynez  Mountains,  which 


LOS   ANGELES   TO   SAN   FRANCISCO        233 

like  a  link  in  a  great  chain  form,  with  many  others,  more 
or  less  disjointed,  the  "  coast  range  "  that  fringes  the 
sea  from  Mexico  to  Oregon.  Sometimes  the  road  is 
bordered  with  Yucca  palms,  sometimes  with  pepper  trees, 
and  sometimes  with  eucalyptus.  One  even  sees,  almost 
simultaneously,  cactus  plants  and  prickly  pears  growing 
amid  the  parched-up  grass  on  the  sun-swept  side  of  some 
unfriendly  hill ! 

At  Caviota,  a  few  miles  south  of  the  famous  "  Point 
Conception,"  the  road  leaves  the  coast  and  swerves  inland. 
Across  the  tip  of  the  Santa  Ynez  Range  it  goes,  swerv- 
ing now  to  the  left,  then  to  the  right,  climbing,  dipping, 
and  swerving  again  for  sixty  or  seventy  miles  until  once 
more  it  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  Pacific  at  El  Pismo  beach. 

Near  here  I  left  the  beaten  track  and  followed  a  narrow 
pathway  that  led  around  a  hill-side  to  the  cliffs.  Here 
I  made  my  bed  down  once  again  in  the  long,  dry  grass 
that  clothed  the  top.  I  could  say  with  tolerable  cer- 
tainty that  never  before  had  a  motor-cycle  followed  that 
path.  It  was  soon  no  more  than  a  little  rut  scarcely 
visible  in  the  grassy  slope.  But  I  achieved  my  objective. 
With  the  murmur  of  the  sea,  as  it  dashed  against  the  rocks 
a  few  hundred  feet  below,  singing  always  in  my  ears, 
I  passed  one  more  night  of  exquisite  repose  and  magic 
charm. 

I  awoke  in  the  morning  and  sniffed  the  sea  air.  It 
was  very  attractive  certainly,  but  was  there  not  some- 
thing the  matter  with  it  somehow  ?  Or  was  it  my  imagina- 
tion ?  I  wriggled  half  out  of  bed  and  peered  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  I  stopped  ;  I  looked ;  I  listened.  Down 
there,  on  a  little  bed  of  white  sand,  lay  a  dead  seal  stretched 
out  flat,  as  one  would  lay  a  tablecloth.  He  looked  a 
dismal  sight,  poor  fellow. 


234      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

Ten  miles  more,  inland  again,  and  it  was  breakfast' 
time.  We  were  at  San  Luis  Obispo,  a  fine  little  town 
at  the  foot  of  the  Santa  Margarita — one  more  link  in 
the  coast  range.  San  Luis  Obispo  took  its  name  from 
an  old  Mission  founded  in  1772,  and  once  was  the  centre 
of  wealth  among  the  Spaniards  of  the  country. 

Afterwards  we  cross  the  hills  and  continue  northward. 
Always  the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad  is  on  our  right, 
sometimes  just  a  few  feet  from  the  highway.  The  con- 
crete has  stopped  and  at  intervals  we  have  our  old  friend, 
the  natural  gravel.  The  laying  of  concrete  is  being 
proceeded  with  at  many  places,  a  hundred  yards  or  so 
at  a  time,  and  detours  running  parallel  at  the  side  connect 
us  up  with  the  road  ahead.  Many  little  seedling  towns 
are  passed — all  of  them  well  planned  and  well  advertised 
— and  at  last  we  come  to  Paso  Robles  (Pass  of  the  Oaks), 
a  larger  town  which  derives  its  name  from  a  great  natural 
oak  park.  I  should  mention  that  oak  trees  are  abundant 
in  California  and  they  grow  often  to  a  very  great  size. 

We  are  now  in  the  Salinas  Valley,  in  proportion  like  a 
long,  narrow  groove  100  miles  long  cut  in  the  face  of  the 
country.  Through  it  runs  the  Salinas  River,  winding  and 
bending  with  great  sweeps  through  its  sandy  bed.  At  mid- 
summer it  is  dried  up  completely,  and,  from  the  long  wooden 
bridges  that  cross  and  re-cross  it,  looks  like  a  sandy  sea- 
beach,  with  fences  across  from  one  bank  to  the  other 
to  stop  the  cattle  straying  ! 

Along  this  valley  blows  a  constant  cool  wind  from  the 
sea  in  the  north.  All  day  long  it  blows,  week  in,  week 
out.  The  further  north  one  proceeds  the  stronger  it 
becomes,  until  it  approaches  almost  a  gale  that  whistles 
down  the  narrow  channel  like  a  cold  blast,  even  in  the 
broiling   heat   of  the   cloudless   sun.     Where,   here   and 


LOS  ANGELES  TO  SAN  FRANCISCO        235 

there,  were  to  be  seen  bunches  of  poplar  trees  and  eucalyp- 
tus, they  were  invariably  leaning  distinctly  to  the  south, 
their  gaunt  trunks  permanently  moulded  by  the  inexorable 
wind.  On  the  smaller  trees,  the  sycamores  and  the 
cedars,  there  was  often  not  a  branch  nor  a  leaf  to  be  seen 
on  the  northern  side  of  the  trunk,  the  foliage  almost 
touching  the  ground  on  the  southern  side.  Those  hundred 
miles  were  the  coldest  I  had  known  in  the  whole  journey, 
and  always  I  found  the  head  wind  so  strong  that  the 
power  of  the  machine  seemed  half  absorbed  in  merely 
combating  it. 

San  Miguel,  San  Ardo,  King  City,  Soledad,  Gonzales, 
and  finally,  at  five  in  the  afternoon,  Salinas  was  reached 
at  the  end  of  the  valley.  San  Francisco  was  now  but 
little  more  than  100  miles  beyond.  To-morrow  would 
be  the  last  day.     The  end  was  in  sight. 

But  what  of  Lizzie  ?  Alas,  she  was  in  a  sorry  condi- 
tion. Gradually  since  we  left  Los  Angeles  two  days  before 
she  had  fallen  off  in  power.  The  old  rattles  and  noises 
had  recurred  with  astonishing  alacrity.  I  had  had  many 
stops  for  minor  adjustments  and  examinations,  and  even 
feared  another  breakdown  before  the  skyscrapers  of 
'Frisco  loomed  in  sight.  The  reader  may  be  in  as  good 
a  position  as  I  to  judge  of  the  merits  of  American  com- 
pared with  English  motor-cycles,  but  he  will  admit  that 
seldom  could  occur  a  worse  combination  of  bad  luck 
and  pig-headed  pertinacity  than  is  witnessed  in  the  wan- 
derings of  Lizzie  and  me  through  the  United  States  of 
America. 

At  Salinas  I  ate  and  drank  right  heartily,  and  drowned 
my  sorrows  in  wistful  contemplation  of  the  blue  eyes 
of  the  gentle  damsel  who  served  apple  pie  across  the 
counter  of  the  "  quick-meal "  luncheon  bar. 


236      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

"  Lizzie,  would  you  like  to  sleep  by  the  sea  to-night 
for  the  last  time  ?  Think  we  can  get  there,  old  girl  ? 
It's  twenty  miles  there  and  twenty  back,  y'  know ! — Righto, 
c'mon ! "  and  she  burst  once  again  into  an  animated  con- 
fusion of  noise  and  life. 

Monterey  is  on  the  coast.  It  stands  surrounded  by 
hills  on  a  magnificent  bay  which,  with  its  yachts,  motor- 
launches,  and  fishing-boats,  is  one  of  the  most  famous 
beauty-spots  of  the  Californian  coast.  Monterey  was 
once  an  important  centre  of  history  in  the  early  days 
of  Spanish  and  Mexican  sovereignty.  Later,  it  enjoyed 
the  distinction  of  being  the  first  spot  in  California  where 
the  American  flag  was  hoisted.  Now  it  is  little  more 
than  a  seaside  resort,  but  as  famous  in  California  as  is 
Naples  in  Italy. 

A  splendid  highway  leads  from  Salinas  and  cuts  through 
beautiful  hills  clothed  in  cedar  and  oak.  The  journey 
was  worth  doing,  if  only  to  breathe  the  sea  air  again  and 
sleep  to  its  murmur. 

It  was  rather  a  pathetic  affair — that  last  night  out. 
I  hated  to  leave  Lizzie  propped  up  on  her  stand  on  the 
low  cliffs  while  I  made  a  comfortable  bed  in  the  sand 
on  the  beach.  The  tide  was  out,  but  I  was  determined 
to  get  as  near  to  the  sea  as  possible.  I  chose  a  spot  where, 
nestled  in  a  sandy  cove  in  the  rocks,  I  could  see  the  breakers 
just  a  score  of  yards  from  my  feet. 

I  awoke  in  the  early  morning  to  find  the  sea  barely 
a  foot  from  my  feet.  The  tide  rose  higher  than  I  had 
expected,  but  I  had  time  to  enjoy  a  few  delightful  minutes 
of  lying  half  awake  in  bed  before  I  finally  proved  discretion 
to  be  better  than  damp  bedclothes  and  dragged  my  belong- 
ings to  a  less  obtrusive  spot. 

Thus  dawned  another  day,  the  day  that  was  to  see  the 


LOS   ANGELES   TO   SAN  FRANCISCO        237 

end.  I  had  ample  time  and  lingered  on  the  way,  now 
administering  friendly  attention  to  Lizzie,  now  stopping 
for  a  light  refreshment  or  to  take  a  leisurely  photograph. 
It  was  all  too  glorious — that  last  day. 

But  poor  old  Lizzie  again  showed  signs  of  exhaustion. 
I  nursed  her  tenderly  and  rode  as  slowly  as  I  felt  inclined 
throughout  the  day. 

Monterey  was  left  behind  after  breakfast.  Then  Salinas 
was  reached  once  more,  and  now  we  were  again  on  the 
road  to  'Frisco. 

Over  the  mountains  to  the  east  once  again,  down  the 
San  Juan  Grade,  that  wound  and  screwed  itself  round 
the  rocky  slopes,  and  we  got  to  San  Juan,  where  the  tall 
eucalyptus  and  waving  pepper  trees  gave  an  air  of  majesty 
to  the  fine  old  Mexican  town  it  proved  to  be. 

Then  we  turn  to  the  north  once  more  and  enter  another 
valley,  the  valley  of  Santa  Clara.  The  towns  become 
larger  and  more  frequent,  the  country  more  developed. 
Orchards  and  fruit-groves  are  frequently  seen.  At  the 
road-sides,  built  up  on  trestles,  are  great  water-tanks 
that  are  used  for  irrigation.  I  notice  that  here  and  there, 
where  the  pipes  that  lead  to  them  have  leaked  a  little,  the 
dark  brown  soil  below  has  burst  into  great  masses  of  fresh 
green  grass,  while  all  around  is  parched  and  lifeless. 

At  San  Jose*  we  find  a  great  fruit-growing  centre,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  beautiful  city  of  many  thousand  inhabit- 
ants. Its  streets  are  fined  with  palms  and  its  suburbs 
extend  into  the  orange  groves  that  abound  on  every 
hand. 

Simultaneously  one  cylinder  starts  to  misfire,  and 
then  another.  Soon  they  are  all  missing.  At  intervals 
they  would  all  chip  in  for  a  second  or  two,  and  as  suddenly 
chip  out  again.     I  smelt  magneto  trouble. 


238      ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR-CYCLE 

I  also  smelt  prunes,  millions  of  them.  O  Californian 
Prune,  how  often  have  I  eaten  of  thy  tasty  endocarp 
in  far-off  England  !  And  here  thou  art  in  myriads  about 
me  ! 

I  stopped  a  dozen  times,  changed  plugs,  examined 
leads,  and  tinkered  with  the  magneto.  Evidently  there 
was  something  the  matter  inside  the  magneto.  I  would 
trust  to  luck  to  get  to  'Frisco — only  forty  miles  more. 

And  thus  we  continued,  sometimes  dawdling  along 
at  fifteen  and  then  suddenly  bursting  into  full  power 
and  shooting  along  at  forty  for  a  minute  or  two,  as  Lizzie's 
peculiar  whim  would  have  it.  It  was  annoying,  tiring, 
disheartening,  but  I  felt  I  should  get  there.  I  had  long 
since  planned  a  trip  to  the  Yosemite  National  Park, 
returning  thence  to  the  north  across  the  border  and 
eastward  through  Canada  back  to  New  York.  That 
little  project  would  certainly  never  come  off.  I  had 
had  enough  already.  I  made  one  great  big  oath  to  sell 
Lizzie's  carcase  for  what  it  would  bring  in  San  Francisco. 
Poor  old  Lizzie  !  I  pitied  her  in  a  way.  She  must  have 
been  born  with  a  curse  on  her  head.  But  she  would 
have  to  go,  if  only  for  100  dollars.  Already  I  began 
wondering  who  would  get  her  after  we  had  parted. 

After  ten  miles  appeared  the  southern  tip  of  the  great 
harbour  that  stretches  inland  to  north  and  south  from 
San  Francisco.  This  bay  is  fifty  miles  long  and  ten 
miles  wide  and  forms  one  of  the  grandest  harbours  in  the 
world.  All  the  navies  of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth 
could  be  comfortably  tucked  away  in  a  corner  of  it.  The 
road  follows  within  a  few  miles  of  the  western  shore  of 
this  inland  sea,  and  at  every  few  miles  are  small,  fast- 
growing  cities  comparable  with  nothing  but  their  proto- 
types that  cluster  around  Los  Angeles.     For  here  we  are 


LOS  ANGELES   TO   SAN  FRANCISCO        239 

absolutely  in  the  centre  of  the  wine-making  district. 
Sixty  years  ago  cuttings  and  rooted  vines  of  every  variety 
found  in  Europe  were  brought  to  California  and  planted, 
mostly  around  this  great  bay  of  San  Francisco,  where 
the  frequent  sea-fogs  contribute  so  much  to  the  mainten- 
ance of  perfect  conditions  for  the  growing  of  vines.  They 
flourished,  and  now  we  have  Medocs  and  Sauternes  and 
Moselles  and  countless  others  from  California,  as  well  as 
from  France. 

For  miles  and  miles  we  see  nothing  but  vineyards  and 
fruit-groves.  There  is  no  fence,  no  ditch,  no  railing. 
The  orange  trees  and  plum  trees  fringe  the  very  road. 
It  is  not  possible  to  say  where  one  estate  ends  and  another 
begins.     The  owners  probably  know. 

The  towns  are  now  so  thick  that  with  them  also  it  is 
difficult  to  say  where  one  ends  and  another  begins.  Only 
another  fifteen  miles  !  Poor  old  Lizzie,  she  may  peg 
out  altogether. 

But  no.  She  keeps  at  it.  Sometimes  she  ceases  firing 
altogether,  but  only  for  a  moment.  On  she  goes  again, 
now  on  one,  now  on  four  cylinders.  Hey  ho  !  We  shall 
get  there  all  right. 

'Buses  and  cars  in  hundreds  pass  in  both  directions. 
We  shall  soon  be  in  'Frisco  now. 

Tram-lines  appear  and  then  trams.  Trolley-cars,  they 
call  them  in  America.     'Frisco  at  last ! 

I  dodge  in  and  out  of  the  traffic  as  best  I  may.  It  is 
very  thick  indeed,  and  in  very  much  of  a  hurry.  I  sail 
down  Market  Street,  the  "  Strand  "  of  San  Francisco. 
What  matter  if  Lizzie  clatters  and  rattles  and  stops  and 
shoots  on  again  ?  She  has  brought  me  here.  And  as 
I  say  so,  the  little  indicator  on  the  speedometer  moves  to 
4,950.     Just   50  miles  short  of  5,000  from  New  York ! 


240       ACROSS  AMERICA  BY   MOTOR-CYCLE 

Gee !  it  seems  like  an  extract  from  another  life,  that  depar- 
ture from  far-off  New  York.  And  how  long  ?  Three 
months  ?    It  feels  like  twelve  at  the  least ! 

I  found  the  post  office  and  sang  out  for  mail.  Sure 
enough  there  was  some — forwarded  from  Cincinnati. 
I  learnt  for  the  first  time  that  the  detailed  "  Schedules  " 
that  I  had  dispatched  three  months  ago  at  New  York 
had  not  yet  reached  England.  Hence  the  reason  for 
the  seeming  unkindliness  of  the  Post  Office  en  route. 
But  where  were  they  ?  I  was  not  to  know  until  a  week 
after  my  return  to  England,  when  they  arrived  suddenly, 
without  any  warning,  and  simultaneously,  to  all  my  friends 
and  relatives  there.  They  had  been  all  round  British 
East  Africa ;  Heaven  and  the  New  York  postal  authorities 
alone  know  why  !  I  had  not  counted  on  such  wayward- 
ness on  their  part  when  in  my  innocence  of  American  ways 
I  had  dropped  them  in  the  post-box  at  New  York. 

Thus  ends  my  tale  of  woe.  It  is  a  strange  thing,  but 
nevertheless  true,  that  now  I  have  done  with  it  and  written 
about  it  and  done  with  writing  about  it,  I  still  think  what 
a  glorious  trip  it  was  and  what  a  perfect  ass  I  was  to 
do  it,  and  what  a  still  greater  ass  I  was  to  say  anything 
about  it ! 


EPILOGUE 

SCENE  I 

Scene. — Outside  the  Post  Office,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 
Time. — August,  1919. 

CHARACTERS 

Lizzie. 
Myself. 
An  Armenian. 

Crowd  of  Loungers,  Small  Boys,  and  Women 
of  various  Nationalities. 

(Self   emerges   from   portals   of   Post   Office.     Chorus   of 
voices  from  crowd.) 

"  'Ere  'e  is  ;  look  at  his  face  ;  look  at  his  chest.  You're 
one  globe-trotter,  I'll  reckon.  How  long  did  it  take  ? 
How  much  has  it  cost  ?  What  did  you  do  it  for  ?  How'd 
you  like  San  Francisco  ?  "  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Myself  (dangerously  ruffled  at  not  having  received  a 
cheque).  "  Well,  and  what  are  you  all  gaping  at,  like  a 
lot  of  half-witted  school-kids  ?  Never  seen  a  motor- 
cycle before  ?  Here,  you  (to  Armenian),  where's  the 
Clift  Hotel  ?  " 

Armenian.     "  Do  you  vont  to  zell  zis  machine  ?  " 

Myself  (successfully  concealing  rapture  at  the  sugges- 
tion). "  Sell  her,  after  she's  brought  me  all  the  way 
from  New  York  ?  Sell  Her  ?  Why,  I'd  sooner  sell 
my  mother-in-law." 

241  r 


242  EPILOGUE 

Armenian.     "  I  vill  gif  you  'undred  dollar  right  'ere." 
Myself.     "  Hundred    dollars    be    damned,    and    you 

with  'em !     Where's  the  Clift  ?  " 

Chorus   of  Voices.     "Up  the  hill  here  and  second 

on  the  right.     Von  'undred  dollar.     Follow  the  trams. 

Give  us  yer  waterbag,  boss.     Look  at  his  boots.     There's 

a  cop  on  the  corner.     Von  'undred  ten  dollar,  right  now. 

Look  at  'is  'air,"  etc.,  etc. 

(Exit  slowly  in   procession,   Self   leading;  Alarums  and 

Excursions.) 

SCENE  II 

Scene. — My  room  at  the  Clift  Hotel. 

Half  an  hour  has  elapsed. 

(Self  discovered,  washing  face.     There  is  a  knock  at  the 

door.) 
Self.     "  Come  in." 

(Enter  Armenian.) 

Armenian.  "  Ah,  'ere  you  vos.  Ze  manager  tolt 
me  your  room.     I  come  right  up." 

Self.     "  Apparently." 

Armenian.  "  I  vont  to  buy  your  motorsickle ;  vot 
you  vont  for  'im  ?  " 

Self.  "  Speak  respectfully,  please.  I  want  500  dollars 
for  HER." 

Armenian  (throwing  up  his  hands  in  horror).  "  Ah, 
zat  vos  too  much,  my  frent !  Dot  vos  more  zan  you 
give  for  'im — for  'er." 

Self.  "  And  how  the  devil  do  you  know  what  I  gave 
for  her  ?  " 

Armenian.  "  I  haf  made  enquiries,  jhust.  I  af  bin 
to  ze  aghency  'ere.     Zey  say  it  vos  480  dollars." 


EPILOGUE  243 

Self.  "  Well,  any  fool  knows  a  machine  improves 
with  running  (the  blush  is  unnoticed  beneath  my  Indian 
complexion);  and  what's  more,  if  a  machine  can  stick 
it  all  the  way  across  The  United  States  of  America 
it  must  be  a  dem  good  one.  I  should  have  asked  600, 
but  I  like  your  face  (cold  shivers  down  spine),  so  I  only 
want  500." 

Armenian.  "  Ah,  zat  vos  far  too  much.  I  vill  gif  you 
von  'undred  fifteen — no  more." 

Self.  "  Nothin'  doin',  bo.  Five  hundred.  Here's 
my  card  ;  you  can  call  round  any  time  between  now 
and  to-morrow  midday  with  the  money.  If  you  can't 
do  it  by  then,  you  can  drop  in  and  see  me  at  Salt  Lake 
City  after  next  Wednesday,  or  Chicago  after  next  Saturday. 
Cheerio ;    close  the  door  as  you  go  out." 

Armenian  (reading  card  and  much  awed  by  same) .     ' '  Ah , 

you    vos    Mistaire  Sh Captin    Sheffer,    R.A.F.  ?     I 

tink  you  vos  vaire  rich  man.  You  could  afford  to  gif 
me  ze  machine  !  Not  so  ?  Me  vaire  poor  man,  Cap- 
tain Sheffer,  R.A.F." 

Self.     "  If  you  knew  as  much  about  the  Air  Force 
as  I  do,  you'd  know  better,  my  friend.     Now,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  buzz  off,  and  don't  worry  me." 
(Exit  Armenian  with  bows,  shuffles  oj  thejeet,  and  salaams.) 

SCENE  III 

Scene. — The  same.     Halj  an  hour  later.    A  knock. 
Self.     "  Come  right  in." 

(Enter  Armenian.) 

Self.     "  What,  again  ?    Got  the  500  ?  " 
Armenian.     "  Grieved    to    trouble    you    vonce    more, 
Captin  Sheffer,  R.A.F.,  but  all  ze  money  I  'af  in  ze  world 


244  EPILOGUE 

vos    von    'undred    twenty-five    dollar.     Me    vaire    poor 
man,  Capt " 

Self.  "  Yes,  I've  heard  you  say  so.  I  believe  you. 
Now  we're  both  liars." 

Armenian.  "Ah  no,  you  insult  me,  Captin  Sheffer, 
R.A.F.  I  am  poor,  but  I  am  'onorable  man.  I  tell  always 
ze  truth.     Zat  vos  all  I  'af  in  all  ze  vorld." 

Self.  "  Look  here,  Mister — I  don't  know  what  your 
name  is,  but  I  guess  you're  a  Hebrew  of  some  kind " 

Armenian.  "  My  name  is  Mistaire  Karachan,  and 
I  come  from  Armenia." 

Self  (aside — "  I  might  have  guessed  it.").  "  Well, 
Mr.  Karachan,  I'll  take  your  word  for  it.  Give  me  125 
right  now  and  you  can  take  the  machine  away  with  you. 
She's  outside  on  the  pavement.  But  mind,  I  shall  never 
want  to  see  your  face  again." 

Armenian  (moved  almost  to  tears).  "  Ah,  you  vos 
a  torough  zhentleman,  Mistaire  Sheffer;  all  ze  English- 
men are  zhentlemen.  Zer  is  only  von  contry  in  all  ze 
vorld  vaire  zer  are  such  zhentlemen." 

Self.  "  Well,  you  can  hand  over  the  wealth  right 
now,  here." 

Armenian.  "  Ah,  but  I  'af  not  got  it  wiz  me,  Mis- 
taire Sheffer.  It  is  too  much  to  carry  about  in  my  pocket. 
But  I  can  gif  you  fifty  dollar  and  bring  ze  rest  zis  after- 
noon. Zat  vos  alright  ?  I  can  take  ze  machine  now, 
yes  no  ?  " 

Self.  "  You  can  take  the  machine  when  you've  paid 
me  125  dollars  in  Cash,  and  not  till  then.  Get  me  ? 
I  shall  be  in  again  at  two  this  afternoon.  You  can  meet 
me  in  the  hall  with  the  money.     Good-bye  till  then." 

Armenian.  "  Veil,  you  vill  gif  me  written  undertaking 
not  to  sell  it  to  any  von  till  then,  Captin  Sheffer,  R.A.F.  ?  " 


EPILOGUE  245 

SCENE   IV 

Scene. — The  same. 
Time. — 3  p.m. 
(A  knock  on  the  door,  followed  by  Armenian.) 
Armenian.     "  Mistaire  Sheffer,   I   'af  come  to  make 
you  a  good  bargain.     You  see  zis  gold  votch  ?    It  vos 
giffen  me  by  my  fazer  and  it  is  solid  gold  wiz  twenty- 
von  jewels.    You  could  sell  it  anywhere  for  fifty  dollar. 
Now  you  'af  bin  zhentleman  to  me,  I  vill  be  zhentleman 
to  you.     I  vill  give  you  ze  votch  and  von  'undred  dollar 
for   your   motorsickle !     Is   it   not   a   bargain,    Mistaire 
Sheffer  ?  " 
Self.     "  Get  out !  " 

SCENE  V 

Scene. — The  same. 

Time. — An  hour  later.    A  knock  on  the  door. 

(Enter  Armenian.) 

Armenian.     "  Oh,    Mistaire   Sheffer,   I   'af  jhust   von 
more  offer  to " 


Self.  "  Look  here,  Mr.  Karachan,  I'm  getting  fed 
up  with  you.  Better  quit  before  I  bang  this  water-jug 
on  your  head.     You've  wasted  all  my  day  as  it  is." 

Armenian.  "  Ah,  you  vill  not  do  zat.  I  know  you 
vill  not  do  zat.  You  are  too  much  zhentleman.  But 
wait,  Mistaire  Sheffer.  Hear  me  vot  I  say.  I  'af  von 
great  big  suggestion  to  make  for  you.  I  make  my  living 
viz  growing  fruit.  I  'af  small  plantation  only  five  mile 
from  'ere.  I  vill  pay  you  for  your  motorsickle  viz  grapes. 
I  vill  gif  you  five  ton  of  beautiful  grapes  and  send  them 
wherever  you  like  in  United  States.     Or  if  you  not  like 


246  EPILOGUE 

zat,  I  vill  gif  you  'undred  dollar  and  von  ton  of  grapes. 
Is  zat  not  good  offer,  yes  no  ?  " 

Self  (recovering  from  momentary  speechlessness  at  the 
thought  of  swapping  Lizzie  for  five  tons  of  grapes).  "  Look 
here,  Mr.  Karachan,  I've  had  enough  of  this  fooling. 
I've  undertaken  to  sell  you  the  machine  for  125  dollars, 
and  if  you  don't  bring  me  the  money,  and  all  of  it,  right 
now,  I'll  report  you  to  the  police.  Now  there's  an  end 
of  it.     Get  out." 

(Exit  Armenian   amid  more'  alarums   and  excursions.) 

SCENE  VI 

Scene. — The  same. 
Time. — 7  p.m.    A  knock.    (Enter  Armenian.) 

Armenian.  "  Oh,  Captin  Sheffer,  R.A.F.,  I  'af  got 
your  money  'ere,  but  I  'af  bin  to  ze  police  to  register 
ze  machine  and  zey  say  I  'af  stolen  it  and  vould  not  let 
me  come  away.  After  much  trouble  we  telephone  a  big 
frend  of  mine  who  know  police  and  zey  let  me  come  away. 
But  zey  vont  your  address  and  ze  registration  certificate 
you  'af  in  New  York." 

Self.  "  But,  Good  Lord,  man,  who  the  devil  said  you 
could  register  it  ?    It  isn't  yours  yet !     Give  me  the  money. ' ' 

Armenian  (handing  me  fifty  dollars  and  a  cheque  for  seventy- 
five).  "  'Ere  it  vos,  but  you  vos  not  angry,  Captin  Sheffer, 
R.A.F  ?  I  vonted  only  to  save  time,  because  I  vont  to 
use  ze  machine  to-morrow." 

Self.  "  Yes,  but  this  is  no  good  (showing  the  cheque). 
This  isn't  Cash.  How  do  I  know  this'll  be  honoured  ? 
Besides,  the  banks  are  closed  now  and  won't  be  open 
till  Monday,  and  I'm  leaving  to-morrow." 

Armenian.     "  Ah,  but  no,  zey  vill  'onour  ze  cheque. 


EPILOGUE  247 

Mistaire is  vaire  well  known  in  San  Francisco.     You 

can  speak  to  'im  on  ze  telephone  if  you  like  and  'e  vill 
tell  you  ze  cheque  is  all  right." 

Self.  "  No  doubt,  but  all  the  same  I'll  see  if  the  hotel 
manager  here  will  cash  it.  If  he  won't,  that's  good  enough 
for  me.     Come  along,  and  we'll  see  him  together." 

Armenian.  "  But  you  vill  gif  me  receipt  now,  yes 
no  ?  Ah,  but  vot  is  zis  ?  (picking  up  a  small  adjustable 
spanner  that  lay  on  the  dressing-table).  It  is  part  of  ze 
machine  !  You  vould  not  surely  make  me  pay  for  a  motor- 
sickle  vizout  no  tools  ?  Ah,  Captin  Sheffer,  R.A.F., 
it  is  not  jhust ;   I  must  'ave  everyzing.     Are  zer  any 

more "     (At  this  juncture  Armenian  is  successfully 

extruded   through   the   doorway,    still   protesting   volubly.) 

SCENE  VII 

Scene. — In  the  hall  of  the  Hotel.    Manager  behind  desk. 

Self.  "  Excuse  me,  but  I  have  a  favour  to  ask.  I 
have  just  done  a  deal  with  this  gentleman,  but  as  all 
the  banks  are  closed  till  Monday,  I  am  wondering  if  you 
would  be  good  enough  to  cash  this  cheque  for  me  as  I 
am  leaving  for  the  East  to-morrow." 

(Manager  looks  closely  at  me  and  proceeds  to  open  till ; 
then,  looking  at  Armenian,  pauses  for  a  moment.  Ulti- 
mately the  money  is  paid  over.) 

(Armenian  and  Self  walk  toward  door  opening  on  to  street.) 

Self.  "What  the  blazes!  Where's  Lizzie?  I  left 
her  up  against  the  pavement.     She's  gone !  " 

Armenian.  "  Oh,  zat  vos  alright.  I  move  'er  zis 
afternoon  to  a  garage  round  ze  corner.  Jhust  zink  how 
terrible  it  would  be  if  some  one  stole  'im !  " 

Self.     "  Well,  I'll  be  goldarned  !  " 


248  EPILOGUE 

SCENE  VIII 

Scene. — Garage  "  round  the  corner."  Lizzie  stands 
surrounded  by  darkness,  Armenian,  and  Self.  Self 
discovered  explaining  to  Armenian  how  the  wheels  go 
round  and  why. 

Self.  "  Well,  good-bye,  Lizzie,  old  girl.  I  grieve  to 
let  you  go  into  the  hands  of  this  being,  but  it  is  all  for 
the  best.  We've  had  some  jolly  times  together,  but  the 
time  is  come  to  part.  Good-bye,  once  and  for  all ;  good- 
bye, good-bye " 

Armenian.  "  Ah,  Mistaire  Sheffer,  you  'av  forgot 
ze  adjustable  spanner  !  " 


Telegrams  : 
"  Scholarly,  Wesdo,  London."  41  and  43  Maddox  Street, 

Telephone  :    1883  Mayfair.  London,  W.l. 


Messrs.  Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s 

AUTUMN 
ANNOUNCEMENTS,  1922 


♦■•■♦ 


SOCIAL  AND  DIPLOMATIC  MEMORIES, 
1884-1893. 

By  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  J.  RENNELL  RODD,  G.C.B., 

G.C.M.G. 

Formerly  H.M.  Ambassador  at  Rome. 

One  Volume.    Demy  Svo.     With  Portrait.    21s.  net. 

The  author  of  this  work  is  well  known  already  not  only  as  a 
distinguished  Diplomatist,  but  as  a  Poet  and  as  the  Author  of 
several  valuable  books.  He  is  a  cultivated  man  of  the  world  with 
long  and  varied  experience,  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  there  have 
been  few,  if  any,  famous  people  of  his  time  with  whom  he  has  not 
been  personally  acquainted.  The  present  volume,  which  brings 
his  "  Memories  "  down  to  1893,  contains  an  account  of  his  early 
association  with  the  "  Balliol  set  "  of  Jowett's  day,  and  his  acquain- 
tance with  Oscar  Wilde,  Whistler,  Burne-Jones,  Gladstone  and 
Browning  among  many  others.  He  entered  the  diplomatic  service 
in  1884  and  joined  the  Embassy  at  Berlin,  where  he  remained  for 
more  than  four  years,  at  a  most  eventful  period  of  German  history. 
During  this  period  he  was  honoured  with  the  intimate  friendship 
of  the  Empress  Frederick,  and  his  account  of  the  Emperor's  tragic 
illness  and  death  is  of  intense  interest,  as  are  his  recollections  of 
Bismarck  and  other  great  personalities  of  the  time.  His  next  post 
was  at  Athens,  which  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  making  some 
delightful  journeys  in  Greece  and  Italy  during  his  weeks  of  leave. 


2  Edward  Arnold  ds  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

Then  followed  a  short  time  spent  at  the  Embassy  at  Constantinople, 
visits  to  Sofia  and  Buda-Pesth,  leave  in  England,  his  first  appoint- 
ment at  Rome,  and  his  transfer  to  Paris.  In  1892  he  received  his 
first  independent  post  in  charge  of  the  British  Agency  at  Zanzibar, 
at  the  time  when  the  Imperial  Government  was  being  substituted 
for  the  rule  of  the  British  East  Africa  Company.  At  this  point  the 
fascinating  volume  ends,  and  the  author  hopes  to  follow  it  up  in 
due  course  with  another,  bringing  his  "  Memories  "  up  to  the  date 
of  his  retirement. 


THE  LIFE  OF  JAMESON. 

By  IAN  COLVIN. 

In  two  Volumes.    Demy  Svo.     With  Portraits.    32s.  net. 

Sir  Leander  Starr  Jameson,  dear  to  many  friends  and  admirers 
as  "  Dr.  Jim,"  had  more  to  do  with  making  history  at  the  end  of 
the  nineteenth  century  than  most  of  his  contemporaries.  His  was 
indeed  a  remarkable  career.  Beginning  life  as  a  Medical  Student 
he  graduated  in  the  usual  way,  and  after  holding  one  or  two  hos- 
pital appointments  in  London,  went  out  to  South  Africa  in  1878,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  to  practise  at  Kimberley,  where  the  Diamond 
Fields  were  just  being  opened  up.  Then  began  his  lifelong  friend- 
ship with  Mr.  C.  J.  Rhodes,  which  entirely  altered  his  career  and 
merged  him  in  the  great  events  that  followed  thick  and  fast,  while 
Rhodes  was  maturing  those  daring  schemes  of  Empire- building 
that  culminated  in  the  formation  of  Rhodesia  and  the  disastrous 
episode  of  the  famous  Raid  into  the  Transvaal.  It  was  a  remark- 
able testimony  to  Jameson's  powers  that  after  the  Raid  he  so  far 
regained  the  confidence  of  his  compatriots  as  to  be  Prime  Minister 
of  the  Cape  Colony  before  he  died. 

Jameson  has  been  fortunate  in  his  biographer.  This  is  no  mere 
official  record  of  an  eventful  fife.  Mr.  Colvin  knew  his  man  per- 
sonally and  writes  with  enthusiasm.  It  is  a  biography  in  which  the 
author  identifies  himself  with  his  subject,  and  carries  the  reader 
with  him  in  a  picturesque  flood  of  dramatic  incidents  and  soul- 
stirring  events.  The  wonderful  development  of  the  Diamond 
Fields,  the  negotiations  with  Lobengula,  the  perilous  journey  from 
Mashonaland  to  the  sea,  the  Matabele  War,  the  discovery  of  gold  on 
the  Rand,  the  troubles  in  Johannesburg,  the  Raid  and  its  conse- 
quences, all  these  are  handled  in  a  masterly  fashion  by  Mr.  Colvin 
and  create  a  deep  impression  as  the  reader  proceeds  through  his 
enthralling  pages.  Jameson  and  Rhodes  were  linked  inseparably 
in  action  year  after  year,  and  the  fight  thrown  upon  the  character 
of  the  latter  is  second  only  to  the  main  purpose  of  the  book. 


Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements.  3 

OBSERVATIONS  ON  FOX-HUNTING 

AND  THE  MANAGEMENT  OF 

HOUNDS. 

By  Colonel  JOHN  COOK. 
With  an  Introduction  by  Lord  Willoughby  de  Broke. 

With  8  Coloured  Plates  from  Contemporary  Prints  and  Paintings 

by  Wolstenholme}  Aiken  and  others,  and  the  Black  and 

White  Illustrations  of  the  Original  Edition. 

Crown  4to.    21s.  net. 

In  selecting  a  volume  to  follow  the  very  popular  reprints  of  Smith's 
"  Life  of  a  Fox  "  and  "  Diary  of  a  Huntsman  "  none  seemed  more 
suitable  than  Cook's  "  Observations  on  Fox-Hunting."  It  has 
never  been  re-issued  since  the  original  edition  in  1826,  but  a  modern 
M.F.H.  would  do  well  to  follow  every  word  of  advice  it  contains. 
The  volume  is  enlivened  with  any  number  of  entertaining  anec- 
dotes and  must  take  a  front  place  on  the  shelves  of  any  sporting 
library.  Lord  Willoughby  de  Broke's  introduction  is  really  a 
brilliant  little  essay  which,  backed  by  his  own  authority  as  a  Master 
of  Fox-Hounds  and  as  a  writer  on  the  subject,  will  ensure  a  warm 
welcome  for  this  forerunner  in  the  sport  of  his  ancestors. 


Uniform  with  the  above. 

THE  LIFE  OF  A  FOX. 

By  THOMAS  SMITH. 

THE  DIARY  OF  A  HUNTSMAN. 

By  THOMAS  SMITH. 

With  Introductions  by  Lord  Willoughby  de  Broke,  and 
beautiful  coloured  Plates  from  rare  Prints  and  Paintings  by 
famous  sporting  Artists. 

Price  One   Guinea  net  each  volume. 


4  Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

MEMORIES  OF  THE  MONTHS. 

Seventh  Series. 

By  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  HERBERT  MAXWELL,  Bart., 
F.R.S.,  D.C.L.,  LL.D. 

One  Volume.    Illustrated.    Large  Crown  Svo.     10s.  6d.  net. 

The  appearance  of  a  new  series  of  "  Memories  of  the  Months  '• 
by  Sir  Herbert  Maxwell  is  an  event  in  the  calendar  of  all  lovers  of 
Natural  History  and  Sport.  It  is  three  years  since  the  publication 
of  the  Sixth  Series,  and  this  long  interval  has  enabled  the  author  to 
extend  his  observations  in  many  directions,  and  to  acquire  a  great 
deal  of  new  and  suggestive  material  about  Flowers,  Birds,  Animals, 
Fish,  Butterflies,  and  Human  Nature.  If  we  take  as  samples  the 
months  of  July  and  September,  we  get  a  fair  idea  of  the  variety  and 
interest  of  the  volume.  July  contains  sections  on  "The  Elusive 
Hedgehog,"  "  Swallows,  Martins  and  Swifts,"  "  North  and  South," 
"  Some  Shrubby  Meadow-sweets,"  and  "  The  Common  Toad." 
September  introduces  "  Lochiel's  Beeches,"  "  The  American  Pond- 
weed,"  "The  Night  Jar,"  and  "Autumn  Flowering  Shrubs." 
Those  who  possess  the  earlier  series  will  be  particularly  interested 
in  Sir  Herbert's  acknowledgment  of  certain  errors  into  which  he 
fell,  and  in  his  comments  thereon  in  the  light  of  later  information. 
He  is  one  of  the  keenest  observers  of  Nature  in  all  her  moods,  and 
the  new  volume  is  fully  as  engaging  and  attractive  as  the  best  of 
its  predecessors. 

A  HISTORY  OF  EUROPFAN  DIPLO- 
MACY, 1815-1914. 

By  R.  B.  MOWAT,  M.A., 

Fellow  of  Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford. 
One  Volume.    Demy  Svo.     16s.  net. 

The  interest  of  the  British  public  in  diplomacy  and  foreign  affairs 
has  steadily  increased  since  the  opening  of  the  twentieth  century. 
In  the  days  of  Queen  Victoria,  although  on  the  Continent  educated 
people  were  more  alive  to  the  position  of  their  State  in  the  society 
of  nations,  public  attention  in  this  country  was  still  largely  centred 
in  domestic  affairs.  In  the  last  twenty  years,  however,  the  publi- 
cation of  Queen  Victoria's  letters,  the  steadily  increasing  stream 
of  biographies  of  our  leading  statesmen,  the  attention  aroused 
by  the  journeys  of  King  Edward  VII  at  a  time  of  obvious  and 
prolonged  European  tension,  and,  more  than  all,  the  War  and  the 
international  problems  it  has  left  behind  it  have  naturally  turned 
every  one  into  something  of  a  student  of  foreign  affairs. 

It  is  not  merely  the  relations  of  Britain  to  other  countries  that 


Edward  Arnold  &  Co.' 8  Autumn  Announcements.  5 

the  British  citizen  must  know  about ;  he  must  understand  the 
dealings  of  other  States  with  each  other ;  for  the  affairs  of  all 
nations  are  so  interwoven  that  none  can  stand  alone.  And  it  is 
with  the  aim  of  contributing  to  the  political  education  of  the  citizen 
that  the  author  has  placed  before  him  here  a  hundred  years  of  the 
diplomatic  relations  of  the  chief  powers  of  Europe,  including  Great 
Britain,  and  has  given  him  the  means  of  following  the  stream  of 
history  that  goes  on  before  his  own  eyes  from  day  to  day,  and  of 
forming  sound  judgments  about  it. 

The  book  falls  into  three  sections  :  the  first  carries  the  story  to 
the  Congress  of  Paris  ;  the  second  describes  the  Union  of  Italy ; 
and  the  third,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Union  of  Germany,"  draws 
together  the  scattered  threads  of  international  relations  into  a 
strand  which  leads  directly  to  the  Great  War.  It  is  illuminating  to 
find  that  many  of  our  present  difficulties  are  a  century  old,  and 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  without  a  knowledge  of  the  results  of 
some  past  solutions  of  these  problems  we  shall  not  easily  solve 
their  successors  to-day. 


BRITISH  MERCHANT  SHIPPING. 

By  CLEMENT  JONES,  C.B. 
One  Volume.    Large  Crown  Svo.     10s.  6d.  net. 

The  aim  of  the  author  in  this  interesting  book  is  to  trace  the  steps 
by  which  Great  Britain  has  come  into  possession  of  her  Mercantile 
Marine,  and  to  describe  the  methods  pursued  in  maintaining  it. 
Most  people  nowadays  have  undertaken  long  voyages  in  a  liner 
either  for  health,  business  or  pleasure,  but  very  few  realize  how 
complicated  are  the  difficulties  and  problems  which  confront  daily 
those  engaged  in  the  management  of  British  shipping  both  ashore 
and  afloat.  A  glance  at  the  contents  of  Mr.  Jones's  volume  will 
show  how  he  deals  with  his  subject ;  he  begins  with  a  brief  historical 
survey,  including  the  epoch-making  change  from  sail  to  steam.  The 
various  types  of  ships  employed  are  then  explained,  such  as  Passen- 
ger steamers,  Intermediate  boats  and  Cargo  vessels.  The  qualifi- 
cations and  functions  of  the  ship's  officers  and  crew  are  indicated, 
and  a  special  chapter  is  devoted  to  the  arrangements  for  securing 
the  safety  and  proper  sanitation  of  the  vessel.  We  then  turn  to  the 
work  done  in  the  offices  on  shore  and  learn  something  about  the 
way  they  are  organized,  the  meaning  of  Bills  of  Lading,  and  the 
system  of  accounts  by  which  the  profits  or  losses  of  the  voyages  are 
ascertained.  Between  the  shore  work  and  the  open  sea  come  the 
docks,  and  much  interesting  information  is  given  about  methods  of 


6  Edward  Arnold  ds  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

loading  and  unloading  cargo,  and  the  surveys  of  ships  while  in  dock. 
This  leads  up  to  chapters  on  the  facilities  afforded  at  some  of  the 
great  ports  at  home  and  abroad  for  the  shipping  that  frequents 
them  in  connexion  with  the  recognized  Trade  Routes  of  the  world. 
The  intricate  subject  of  Marine  Insurance  is  touched  upon  in  a 
particularly  lucid  and  instructive  chapter.  Mr.  Jones  is  a  director 
of  the  well-known  firm  of  Alfred  Booth  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  Merchants  and 
Shipowners,  and  has  had  a  long  experience  of  shipping  business  in  all 
its  branches.  In  this  volume  he  is  writing  for  the  general  reader 
who  has  seldom,  if  ever,  had  such  a  good  opportunity  of  enlarging 
his  knowledge  of  our  grand  Merchant  Navy. 

THE  ALPINE  CLUB  REGISTER,  1857-1863. 

By  A.  L.  Mumm, 

Late  Honobary  Secretary  and  Vice-President,  now  Honorary 
Librarian,  of  the  Alpine  Club. 

One  Volume,  about  400  pages  Demy  Svo.    21s.  net. 

It  has  long  been  recognized  that  some  sort  of  register  of  members 
of  the  Alpine  Club  was  a  desideratum.  The  present  attempt  to  supply 
the  deficiency  was  begun  many  years  ago,  and  has  been  carried 
down,  more  or  less  completely,  to  the  end  of  1907,  the  Jubilee  year 
of  the  club,  but  the  amount  of  material  collected  was  so  large  that 
it  has  seemed  desirable  to  publish  an  instalment  only,  on  the  present 
rather  extensive  scale. 

The  general  lines  of  treatment  in  the  great  majority  of  cases  are 
as  follows  :  first  a  biographical  sketch  is  given,  comprising,  so  far 
as  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  birth  and  parentage,  marriage,  education, 
business  or  professional  career,  publications  and  any  other  details 
of  interest,  special  attention  being  given  to  travels  off  the  beaten 
track  even  when  these  did  not  involve  mountaineering.  Relation- 
ship or  connection  by  marriage  with  other  members  of  the  Club  is 
also  recorded  where  it  exists.  This  is  followed  by  a  separate  account, 
where  any  records  are  available,  of  the  member's  mountaineering, 
and  of  his  literary,  artistic,  or  scientific  work  in  connection  with  the 
Alps  or  other  mountain  ranges.  The  arrangement  of  the  mountain- 
eering particulars  is  chronological.  To  give  any  accounts  of  indi- 
vidual climbs  was,  of  course,  impracticable.  On  the  other  hand 
care  has  been  taken  to  cite  the  original  sources  as  fully  as  possible, 
and  to  give  the  date  of  each  separate  expedition  wherever  it  was 
ascertainable.  It  is  believed  that  the  latter  feature  will  be  found  a 
matter  of  great  convenience  for  purposes  of  reference.  The  names 
cf  the  member's  companions  have  been  given  when  they  also  were 
members  of  the  Alpine  Club  ;  those  of  guides  and  of  other  com- 
panions have,  as  a  rule,  been  omitted.  Where  a  climb  was  made 
without  guides,  the  fact  is  mentioned. 


Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements.  7 

THE  FIVE  JARS. 

By  Dr.  M.  R.  JAMES, 

Provost  of  Eton  College. 
Author  of  "  Ghost  Stories  of  an  Antiquary,"  etc. 

Octavo.    Illustrated.     Price  6s.  net. 

"  The  Five  Jars  "  may  be  called  a  fairy  story  or  a  ghost  story 
according  to  the  reader's  idiosyncrasy.  Anyhow  it  is  a  delightful 
tale  for  young  and  old  alike.  Upon  it  Dr.  James  brings  to  bear  all 
those  subtle  and  delicate  powers  of  invention  that  have  caused  his 
ghost  stories  to  be  classed  among  the  best  ever  written.  He  knows 
the  precise  effects  of  the  supernatural,  or  the  subnatural,  on  the 
mind,  and  excels  in  the  description  of  intelligences  higher  than 
beasts  and  lower  than  men,  often  with  a  malevolent  tendency.  In 
"  The  Five  Jars  "  the  mischief-makers  are  subordinated  to  the  more 
pleasing  and  gracious  elements  of  fantasy,  and  we  are  introduced 
to  an  entirely  new  kind  of  fairy  tale  written  with  that  distinction  of 
style  of  which  the  Provost  of  Eton  is  a  master. 

If  one  were  asked  to  name  a  book  of  the  same  genre  as  "  The 
Five  Jars,"  Maeterlinck's  "  Blue  Bird  "  suggests  itself  as  displaying 
on  a  rather  larger  canvas  certain  features  that  are  likely  to  make 
this  new  volume  popular. 

By  the  same  Author. 

GHOST  STORIES    OF  AN  ANTIQUARY. 

New  Edition.     5s.  net. 

MORE  GHOST  STORIES. 

New  Edition.    5s.  net. 

A  THIN  GHOST  AND  OTHERS. 

4s.  6d.  net. 

"  I  wish  to  place  myself  on  record  as  unreservedly  recommending 
'  More  Ghost  Stories.'  It  is  Dr.  James's  method  that  makes  his 
tales  so  fascinating.  As  he  puts  it  in  his  Preface,  a  ghost  story 
ought  to  be  told  in  such  a  way  that  the  reader  shall  say  to  himself  : 
'  If  I  am  not  very  careful  something  of  this  kind  may  happen  to 
me.'  " — Punch. 

"  What  makes  these  stories  impressive  is  not  only  the  artistic 
skill  shown  in  the  application  of  supernatural  elements,  but  the 
air  of  vraisemblance  that  distinguishes  each  narrative.  Dr.  James 
is  a  master  of  the  art  of  '  true  relation.'  " — Westminster  Gazette. 


8  Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

ACROSS  AMERICA  BY  MOTOR  CYCLE. 

By  C.  K.  SHEPHERD. 

Late  Captain  Royal  Air  Force. 
One  Volume.    Demy  Svo.     With  Illustrations.     12  s.  6d.  net. 

The  author  was  told  that  he  was  the  first  Englishman  to  accom- 
plish on  a  motor  cycle  the  journey  across  the  American  continent 
irom  New  York  to  San  Francisco,  and  adds  that  after  his  own 
■experience  he  can  well  believe  it ! 

The  whole  trip,  covering  just  5,000  miles,  was  undertaken 
alone,  and  occupied  about  three  months,  of  which  a  day  or  two 
short  of  one  month  was  taken  in  actual  riding.  Mr.  Shepherd  rode 
under  the  summer  sun  without  a  hat  or  goggles  ;  he  was  thrown  off 
142  times,  "  and  after  that,"  he  says,  "  I  stopped  counting  !  "  He 
arrived  in  San  Francisco  with  the  same  tyres  he  had  when  he  started, 
but  his  list  of  engine  replacements  included  five  new  cylinders, 
three  pistons,  five  gudgeon  pins,  three  complete  sets  of  bearings, 
two  connecting  rods  and  eleven  sparking  plugs.  His  great  trouble 
came  from  the  terrible  condition  of  the  roads  :  these  varied  from 
occasional  excellent  stretches  of  concrete  down  to  what  is  euphe- 
mistically termed  "  natural  gravel,"  apparently  a  fenced  track 
where  vehicles  have  to  make  their  own  way  over  the  untouched 
soil !  Some  of  the  author's  photographs  bear  eloquent  testimony 
to  the  state  of  these  so-called  roads. 

Apart  from  the  cycling  adventures,  which  are  many  and  various, 
Mr.  Shepherd  has  a  good  eye  for  the  beauties  and  eccentricities  of 
nature,  as  well  as  the  handiwork  of  man  in  the  remote  western 
regions  visited.  His  course  lay  through  the  Alleghanies,  Cincinnati, 
Springfield,  Kansas  City,  Pueblo,  Santa  Fe,  the  Petrified  Forest 
of  Arizona,  Flagstaff,  the  Grand  Canyon,  across  the  Mohave  Desert 
to  Los  Angeles  and  thence  to  San  Francisco.  He  possesses  a  bright 
and  graphic  style  and  an  unfailing  sense  of  humour  which  must 
have  served  him  well  in  many  an  awkward  situation. 

THE  MIND  OF  A  WOMAN. 

By  Mrs.  PHILIP  CHAMPION  DE  CRESPIGNY. 
One  Volume.  Crown  Svo.  7s.  6d.  net. 
The  purpose  of  this  book  is  to  inquire  into  the  respective  attri- 
butes of  man  and  of  woman,  in  order  to  compare  their  claims  to 
take  part  successfully  in  the  conduct  of  human  affairs.  It  traces 
the  evolution  of  woman  from  the  prehistoric  cave-dweller  to  the 
modern  "  heiress  of  all  the  ages,"  showing  how  essentially  different 
have  been  the  fines  on  which  her  development  has  proceeded  as 
compared  with  that  of  man.  Many  interesting  examples  are  quoted 
from  history  to  show  the  discouraging  and  cramping  effects  of  her 
environment,  in  circumstances  sufficient  to  account  for  her  apparent 
incapacities  and  shortcomings.     But  notwithstanding  the  crushing 


Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements.  9 

nature  of  her  environment,  she  gradually  unfolded  characteristics 
which,  though  dissimilar  to  man's,  may  prove  to  be  no  less  valuable 
in  the  conduct  of  public  affairs. 

The  position  of  the  early- Victorian  woman  was  indeed  little,  if  at 
all,  in  advance  of  her  predecessors  who  lived  in  the  great  days  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  Step  after  step,  gained  by  centuries  of  arduous 
struggles  for  freedom,  was  lost  through  the  relapse  of  nations  into 
barbarism  during  periods  of  war  when  physical  strength  replaced 
the  gentler  sanctions  of  civilization. 

In  such  periods  the  Woman's  cause  languishes  :  man  must  always 
excel  in  dealing  with  material  forces,  while  woman's  more  delicate 
organization  needs  the  atmosphere  of  civilization  for  its  develop- 
ment. With  favourable  surroundings  she  is  perhaps  in  closer  touch 
with  the  sources  of  inspiration  than  man  ;  but  woman's  debt  to 
man,  no  less  than  man's  debt  to  woman,  is  firmly  insisted  upon. 
The  keynote  of  the  book  is  that  despite  the  trammels  of  a  difficult 
environment  she  has  developed  qualities  which  are  lacking  in  the 
other  sex,  but  equally  potent  and  conducive  to  the  common  weal. 

ERMYTAGE  AND  THE  CURATE. 

By  A.  M.  COGSWELL. 

With  a  Foreword  by  Captain  Stephen  Gwynn. 

One  Volume.    Crown  8vo.    7s.  6d.  net. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  describe  the  Curate.  Ermytage  had  been  a 
master  in  a  private  school,  and  both  gentlemen  found  their  way  into 
the  Army  from  patriotic  motives,  before  the  days  of  Conscription. 
Both  of  them  were  wounded  and  relegated  to  the  Labour  Corps, 
and  then  their  troubles  began.  Their  patriotism  could  not  stand 
the  strain,  and  they  became,  alas  !  habitual  shirkers.  Whether  the 
reader  will  peruse  their  misfortunes  in  wrathful  indignation  at  the 
treatment  meted  out  to  free  Britons  or  with  secret  satisfaction  at 
the  miscarriage  of  their  strivings  after  "  soft  jobs,"  depends  alto- 
gether upon  the  point  of  view.  Some  of  the  situations  are  too 
humorous  for  tears,  others  too  sad  to  laugh  over.  In  the  back- 
ground, absent  yet  ever  present,  is  Helen,  Ermytage's  fiancee,  and 
very  much  to  the  front  is  charming  Sister  Joan,  whose  part  in  the 
story  it  is  hardly  fair  to  disclose. 

The  foreword  by  Captain  Stephen  Gwynn  shows  that  this  able 
critic  has  felt  the  seriousness  of  the  impression  conveyed  by  the 
story.  "  I  rejoice,"  he  says,  "  that  the  book  should  be  published, 
for  it  is  a  desperate  picture  of  the  slavery  inseparable  from  any  such 
war  of  nations.  .  .  .  Generally,  the  book  interested  me  very 
greatly,  and  has  left  a  mark  on  my  mind.  I  think  it  would  do  the 
same  for  anyone  who  was  in  the  war  or  who  was  affected  personally 
by  the  war  ;  and  it  does  not  leave  a  desolating  impression,  though 
it  contributes  to  one's  fervent  resolve  to  prevent,  rf  it  be  humanly 
possible,  the  whole  thing  from  ever  happening  again." 


10  Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

FIRE  AND  SWORD  IN  THE  SUDAN. 

By  SLATIN  PASHA. 

Translated  and  Edited  by 
General  Sir  REGINALD  WINGATE,  Bart.,  G.C.B. 

New  Edition.  Illustrated.  6s.  net. 
The  story  of  the  experiences  of  Slatin  Pasha  as  a  ruler,  a  soldier 
and  a  captive  in  the  Sudan  is  one  of  the  most  striking  romances  of 
modern  times.  It  is  a  chapter  of  human  experience  wherein  truth 
far  surpassed  fiction  in  hairbreadth  escapes  and  deeds  of  daring 
beyond  what  seemed  possible.  One  places  this  volume  on  a  shelf 
of  its  own  as  the  authority  for  all  time  on  the  great  Mohammedan 
upheaval  in  the  Sudan  which  was  accompanied  by  an  amount 
of  human  suffering  that  defies  calculation. 

GENERAL  ASTRONOMY. 

By  H.  SPENCEE  JONES,  M.A.,  B.Sc. 

Chief  Assistant  at  the  Royal  Observatory,  Greenwich,  late 
Fellow  of  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.     , 

With  numerous  Illustrations.     One  Volume.     Demy  Svo. 

21s.  net. 

Astronomy  is  a  branch  of  science  which  has  always  appealed  to 
the  popular  imagination.  It  was  studied  in  ancient  times  and  our 
knowledge  of  the  heavens  is  still  being  enlarged.  The  tendency  in 
recent  years  has  been  to  extend  our  observations  far  beyond  the 
little  system  ruled  by  our  sun  and  to  explore  the  vast  world 
beyond. 

This  year  the  Royal  Astronomical  Society  celebrated  its  centenary, 
and  it  is  a  happy  coincidence  that  there  should  appear  a  volume 
containing  a  general  survey  of  our  knowledge  of  Astronomy.  The 
author  is  an  eminent  authority  and  is  the  leader  of  the  British 
Expedition  to  Christmas  Island  for  the  observation  of  the  total 
eclipse  of  the  sun  on  September  21.  His  treatment  of  the  subject 
is  essentially  non-mathematical,  and  while  mathematical  methods 
of  reasoning  have  been  followed  where  possible,  it  will  be  found 
that  knowledge  of  higher  mathematics  has  not  been  assumed. 

After  a  general  discussion  of  the  celestial  sphere,  the  author 
devotes  chapters  to  the  earth,  the  moon  and  the  sun.  Among  the 
subjects  considered,  may  be  mentioned  the  size  and  the  motions  of 
these  celestial  bodies,  their  distance  from  each  other,  the  occurrence 
of  eclipses  and  occultations,  and  the  phenomena  of  sunspots.  Then 
follow  two  interesting  chapters  dealing  with  astronomical  instru- 
ments and  astronomical  observations,  from  which  the  reader  will 
realize  how  improvements  in  the  manufacture  of  instruments  and 
in  the  sensitivity  of  photographic  plates  have  enabled  greater 
accuracy  to  be  attained  and  new  discoveries  to  be  made.    Next  we 


Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements.  11 

have  an  account  of  planetary  motions  and  a  description  of  the 
several  planets  and  their  satellites.  Subsequent  chapters  are 
entitled  "  Comets  and  Meteors,"  "  The  Stars,"  "  Double  and  Vari- 
able Stars  "  and  "  The  Stellar  Universe,"  and  after  reading  these  one 
cannot  fail  to  be  awestruck,  though  uplifted,  at  the  very  vastness  of 
the  universe. 

The  author  has  taken  considerable  trouble  in  procuring  a  repre- 
sentative set  of  astronomical  photographs  from  the  records  of  the 
various  observations,  both  of  this  and  other  countries,  and  the 
value  of  the  book  is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  twenty-four  magnificent 
plates,  in  which  especial  care  has  been  taken  to  ensure  accurate 
reproductions  of  the  photographs. 

A  NEW  VOLUME  IN  "THE  MODERN  EDUCATOR'S  LIBRARY." 

AN  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE 
PSYCHOLOGY  OF  EDUCATION. 

By  JAMES  DREVER,  M.A.,  D.Sc. 

Lectuber  in  Psychology  in  the  University  op  Edinburgh. 
Author  of  "  Instinct  in  Man,"  "  The  Psychology  of  Industry,"  etc. 
One  Volume.    Crown  8vo.     Price  6s.  net. 

Few  words  are  more  familiar  to  the  plain  man  than  the  word 
psychology.  What  is  this  psychology  which  seems  to  be  the 
novelist's  bait,  the  journalist's  magic  formula  and  the  physician's 
new  prescription  for  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  ?  Is  it  some- 
thing wholly  technical,  increasingly  associated  with  laboratories  and 
consulting-rooms,  part  of  the  necessary  equipment  of  the  teacher 
and  pastor,  or  is  it  something  with  which  the  plain  man  and  the 
ordinary  reader  are  likewise  vitally  concerned  ?  This  is  the  pro- 
blem which  guides  Dr.  Drever  in  his  important  contribution  to  the 
Modern  Educator's  Library.  Psychology  is  the  concern  of  the 
plain  man  as  well  as  of  the  professional  person.  For,  as  Dr.  Drever 
shows,  psychology  is  primarily  concerned  with  real  experience,  the 
real  behaviour  of  real  human  beings,  not  with  artificial  abstractions 
but  with  everyday  folk  in  their  everyday  ways.  The  daily 
intercourse  of  ordinary  life  depends  for  its  smoothness  and  its  success 
upon  understanding,  sympathy  and  insight.  Dr.  Drever  shows  us 
how  we  do  think,  how  we  do  feel,  how  we  do  act,  as  a  preliminary 
to  the  consideration  of  how  we  ought  to  think,  ought  to  feel,  and 
ought  to  act.  We  say  we  are  persons  :  he  shows  us  in  what  sense 
the  real  truth  is  that  we  are  persons  in  the  making,  not  already 
made,  and  this  is  the  fascinating  feature  about  his  work.  We  see, 
in  his  pages,  how  the  half -hidden  factors  in  Experience,  whether  they 
be  the  commonplaces  of  poetry  from  Shakespeare  to  Wordsworth, 
or  the  discoveries  of  modern  investigators  like  Freud,  Jung  and 
Bergson  conspire  together,  work  wonderfully  towards  making  us 


12  Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

what  we  are  and  what  we  are  to  be.  Experience  educates  and 
experience  is  lifelong.  Dr.  Drever  reveals  how  it  is  that  Experience 
educates.  Of  the  technical  jargon  employed  in  purely  technical 
treatises  there  is  no  trace,  but  rather  a  straightforward  account  of 
the  nature  of  Everyday  Experience  and  the  conditions  of  our 
mental  development. 

THE  MODERN  EDUCATOR'S  LIBRARY. 

General  Editor  :    Prof.  A.  A.  COCK, 
Professor  of  Education  in  University  College,  Southampton. 

Crown  Svo.  Uniform  cloth  binding.  6s.  net  each. 
"  The  Modern  Educator's  Library  "  has  been  designed  to  give 
considered  expositions  of  the  best  theory  and  practice  in  English 
education  of  to-day.  It  is  planned  to  cover  the  principal  problems 
of  educational  theory  in  general,  of  curriculum  and  organization, 
of  some  unexhausted  aspects  of  the  history  of  education,  and  of 
special  branches  of  applied  education. 

EDUCATION  :  ITS  DATA  AND  FIRST  PRINCIPLES. 

By  T.  PERCY  NUNN,  M.A.,  D.Sc., 

Professor  of  Education  in  the  University  of  London. 
Fourth  Impression. 

THE  CHILD  UNDER  EIGHT. 

By  E.  R.  MURRAY, 

Vice -Principal  of  Maria  Grey  Training  College,  and 

HENRIETTA  BROWN-SMITH,  L.L.A., 

Lecturer  in  Education,  Goldsmiths'  College,  University  of  London. 
Third  Impression. 

MORAL  AND  RELIGIOUS  EDUCATION. 

By  SOPHIE  BRYANT,  D.Sc,  Litt.D., 

Late  Head  Mistress  of  the  North  London  Collegiate  School  for  Girls. 

THE  TEACHING  OF  MODERN  FOREIGN 
LANGUAGES  IN  SCHOOL  AND  UNIVERSITY. 

By  H.  G.  ATKINS,  MA., 

Professor  of  German  in  King's  College,  University  of  London,  and 

H.  L.  HUTTON,  M.A., 

Senior  Modern  Language  Master  at  Merchant  Taylors  School. 

ORGANIZATION  AND  CURRICULA  OF  SCHOOLS. 

By  W.  G.  SLEIGHT,  M.A.,  D.Lit. 

Second  Impression. 
Other  volumes  in  preparation. 


Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements.  13 

RECENTLY    PUBLISHED. 

MOUNT   EVEREST. 

The  Reconnaissance,  1921. 

By  Lieut.-Colonel  C.  K.  HOWARD-BURY,  D.S.O., 

And  other  Members  of  the  Expedition. 

With  33  full-page  illustrations  and  maps.     Medium  Svo. 

25s.  net. 

Also  a  Limited  Large  Paper  Edition,  with  additional  plates 

in  photogravure.     Quarto ,  each  copy  numbered. 

£5  5s.  net. 

"  A  remarkable  contribution  to  the  long  and  glorious  story  of  British 
endeavour  in  the  high  places  of  the  earth.  The  whole  is  a  splendid  record  of 
clever  and  courageous  enterprise." — The  Times. 

"  The  book  under  review  tells  the  tale  of  the  doings  of  last  year's  journey, 
and  a  notable  tale  it  is,  well  told,  finely  illustrated  with  wonderful  photo- 
graphs, and  excellently  printed.  The  accompanying  maps  enable  us  for  the 
first  time  to  describe  the  articulation  of  the  whole  mountain  region  and  to 
replace  the  vaguely  guessed  indication  of  culminations  and  connexions  by 
a  labyrinth  of  glaciers  and  ridges,  full  of  meaning  to  geographers  and  those 
for  whom  the  actual  shape  of  the  surface  of  the  earth  has  interest." — Sir 
Martin  Conway,  M.P.,  in  the  Manchester  Guardian. 

"  Mr.  Leigh  Mallory,  who  led  the  climbing  party  of  the  Everest  expedition, 
has  written  in  '  The  Reconnaissance  of  the  Mountain  '  an  epic  of  mountain- 
eering which  deserves  to  be  an  abiding  possession  for  all  those  who  have- 
ventured  themselves  into  the  silence  and  desolation  of  the  high  peaks." — 
Morning  Post. 

"  The  book  put  together  by  the  members  of  last  year's  expedition,  more 
especially  the  maps  and  illustrations,  makes  us  envious.  Colonel  Howard 
Bury  has  told  his  story  simply,  with  evident  enjoyment.  Mr.  Leigh  Mallory, 
who  gives  us  the  story  of  the  reconnaissance,  is  terse  and  human  and  never 
tedious.  He  tells  us  exactly  what  we  want  to  know." — Mr.  Edmund  Candler 
in  the  Nation. 

"  The  story  of  the  journey  and  the  climbing  adventure  as  told  separately 
by  the  leader  and  Mr.  Mallory  combine  to  make  a  narrative  of  singular  variety 
which  sustains  its  interest  to  the  end,  and  is  agreeably  supplemented  by  the 
chapters  of  '  Natural  History  Notes,'  contributed  by  Dr.  Wollaston.'  " — 
Mr.  Douglas  Freshfield  in  the  New  Statesman. 

"  As  fascinating  and  picturesque  as  it  is  valuable.  It  will  rank  with  the 
best  of  its  kind,  and  is  assured  of  a  success  that  is  exceptionally  well  deserved. 
It  will  satisfy  both  the  expert  and  the  casual  reader,  and  there  can  be  nothing 
but  praise  for  all  concerned  in  it." — Illustrated  London  News. 

"  The  book  is  admirably  and  enthusiastically  written,  very  finely  illus- 
trated, and  in  every  way  an  ideal  record  of  what  will  always  be  considered  a 
classical  example  of  exploration  in  its  first  stage." — Country  Life. 

"  Quite  apart  from  its  intrinsic  interest  it  will  be  of  the  greatest  value  to- 
everybody  who  wishes  to  appreciate  the  attempt  which  is  now  being  made 
to  continue  the  work  and  reach  the  absolute  summit  of  the  highest  mountain 
in  the  world." — Westminster  Gazette. 


14  Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

A  NEW  MEDLEY  OF  MEMORIES. 

BT   THE 

Hight  Rev.  Sir  DAVID  HUNTER  BLAIR,  Bt.,  O.S.B.,  M.A., 

Tithlab  Abbot  or  Dtjnfebicline. 
With  Portrait.    Demy  Svo.     16s.  net. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  get  a  further  instalment  of  this  born  raconteur's  reminis- 
cences. Every  page  of  his  new  volume  has  its  sagacious  saying  or  apt 
anecdote.     A  human  and  humane  book." — Morning  Post. 

"  Sir  David  Blair  has  followed  up  one  successful  book  with  another.  His 
high  spirits  enable  him  to  call  up  the  past  in  a  continuous  flow  of  entertain- 
ment."— Daily  News. 

"  The  book  is  a  mine  of  good  things,  for  the  Abbot  of  Dunfermline  has 
met  many  interesting  people,  and  has  a  kindly  eye  for  the  humours  of  life." — 
Scotsman. 

"  Sir  David  has  the  delightful  wit  one  expects  from  a  dignitary  of  the 
•Catholic  Church,  and  this  new  book  makes  really  fascinating  reading." — 
John  o'  London's  Weekly. 

"  In  this  second  publication,  we  meet  with  the  same  features  that  made 
the  previous  one  so  agreeable  :  the  pleasant  gossip,  the  shrewd  impressions 
of  foreign  travel,  and  above  all  an  overflowing  supply  of  good  stories  (one 
or  two  of  which,  however,  look  rather  strange  in  these  staid  pages)." — Catholic 
Times. 

"  The  '  memories,'  in  fact,  are  well  described  as  a  '  medley  '  ;  but  they 
are  a  very  entertaining  one  ;  and  as  they  end  with  the  beginning  of  the  war 
it  may  be  hoped  that  there  are  more  of  them  still  to  come." — Westminster 
Gazette. 

Third  Impression. 

MEMORIES  AND  NOTES  OF  PERSONS  AND 

PLACES. 

By  Sir  SIDNEY  COLVIN,  M.A.,  D.Litt., 

FOBMEBLY  SLAOE  PBOFESSOR  OF  FlNE  ART  IN  THE  UnIVEBSITY  OF  CaMBBIDGE 
AND  KEEPEB    OF   THE    PbINTS   AND    DBAWINGS   AT   THE    BRITISH  MUSEUM. 

With  Portrait.     Third  Impression.     18s.  net. 

"  The  sloven  style,  the  trivial  matter,  of  so  many  of  the  Reminiscences 
which  every  publishing  season  pours  forth  makes  all  the  more  welcome  by 
contrast  a  book  of  memories  that  is  both  rich  in  interest  and  itself  a  piece  of 
literature.  Such  is  Sir  Sidney  Colvin's  '  Memories  and  Notes.'  It  is  a  plea- 
sure to  read  from  beginning  to  end,  if  only  for  the  exact  and  vivid  phrasing, 
the  sustained  felicity  of  cadence,  at  times  touching  emotion  and  imagination 
.at  once  with  just  that  kind  of  beauty  of  sound  in  the  words  which  is  proper 
to  fine  prose." — Mr.  Laurence  Binyon  in  the  Bookman. 


Edward  Arnold  &  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements.  15 

ADRIENNE  TONER. 

By  ANNE  DOUGLAS  SEDGWICK 
(Mrs.  Basil  de  Selincottrt), 

Author  op  "  Tante,"  "  Thb  Encounter,"  "  Valerie  Upton,"  etc. 

Third  Impression.    Crown  Svo.     7s.  6d.  net. 

The  American  edition  of  this  popular  novel,  which  appeared  a 
few  months  after  the  English  one,  was  received  with  a  storm  of 
praise.  The  following  are  some  of  the  acclamations  with  which  its 
advent  was  hailed  across  the  Atlantic  : 

"  A  very  great  and  significant  book,  a  most  important  event  in  English 
and  American  letters.  It  cuts  free  from  the  past,  there  has  been  nothing 
like  it.  .  .  .  One  of  the  two  possible  examples  of  the  modern  novel  which 
point  definitely  toward  the  novel  of  to-morrow." — Zona  Gale. 

"  Out  of  the  troop  of  a  year's  books  comes  '  Adrienne  Toner,'  a  very  pearl 
of  a  novel." — Kate  Douglas  Wiggin. 

"  An  extraordinary  book.  .  .  .  The  breath  of  life  emanates  from  the  pages 
and  it  is  intoxication  to  breathe  it." — Hildegarde  Hawthorne  in  the  New  York 
Herald. 


THE  RAINBOW  BRIDGE. 

By  REGINALD  FARRER, 

Author  of  "  The  Eaves  op  the  World,"  "  My  Rock  Garden,"  etc. 

With  Illustrations  and  Map.    Second  Impression. 

21s.  net. 

"  A  classic  of  travel.  Of  modern  travellers  with  a  sense  of  style,  Mr.  Farrer 
must  take  his  place  in  the  forefront  alongside  of  Mr.  Doughty,  Mr.  Cunning- 
hame  Graham,  and  Mr.  Norman  Douglas." — Times  Literary  Supplement. 

"  There  can  be  no  denying  that  Mr.  Farrer  was  one  of  the  great  masters 
of  English  prose.  His  last  book  is  bright  with  sidelights  on  vie  intime  of  the 
essential  China." — Morning  Post.t 


16  Edward  Arnold  <fc  Co.'s  Autumn  Announcements. 

AVIATION  IN  PEACE  AND  WAR. 

By  Majoe-Genebal  Sie  F.  H.  SYKES,  G.B.E.,  K.C.B.,  C.M.G. 

Late  Chief  of  the  Air  Staff  and  Controller- General 
of  Civil  Aviation. 

Demy  Svo.    8s.  6d.  net. 

"Asa  broad  survey  of  the  pre-war  organization  of  our  air  services,  and  of 
their  extraordinary  development  and  wonderful  achievement  in  the  great 
struggle,  written  in  the  light  of  intimate  knowledge  of  all  the  details,  it  leaves 
nothing  to  be  desired.  Here  we  have  a  faithful  picture,  vivid,  and  of  perfect 
composition." — Daily  Telegraph. 

"  Sir  Frederick  Sykes,  himself  one  of  the  world's  foremost  authorities  on 
aviation,  has  rendered  a  public  service  in  writing  the  book  from  which  the 
above  sentences  are  taken." — Financial  News. 

"  Sir  F.  H.  Sykes  writes  well,  and  his  book  makes  very  easy  as  well  as  very 
interesting  reading." — Truth. 


IS  GERMANY  PROSPEROUS? 

By  Sie  T.  HENRY  PENSON,  K.B.E.,  M.A., 

Formerly  Chairman  of  the  War  Trade  Intelligence  Department  and 
Director  of  the  Intelligence  Section  of  the  British  Delegation 
to  the  Peace  Conference,  Paris,  1919. 

Author  of  "  The  Economics  of  Everyday  Life." 

Crown  Svo.    3s.  6d.  net. 

"  This  is  a  really  candid  effort  to  arrive  at  the  truth.  Sir  Henry  Penson's 
book  is  only  a  sketch,  and  does  not  attempt  any  elaborate  statistical  analysis, 
but  he  is  a  skilled  observer,  and  his  statements,  particularly  with  reference 
to  the  relative  economic  position  of  the  upper,  middle,  and  lower  classes, 
constitute  a  valuable  addition  to  our  understanding  of  a  very  complex  situa- 
tion."— Economist. 

"  Those  who  want  to  get  at  the  truth  may  find  help  in  the  very  clear  and 
dispassionate  account  given  by  Sir  Henry  Penson." — New  Statesman. 

"  The  interest  of  the  volume  lies  in  its  impartiality  and  candour." — Daily 

News. 

London :    Edward  Arnold  &  Co.,  41  &  43  Maddox  Street,  W.l. 


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